LSSING  OF 

THE  STORM 


ALFRED  CASTNER.KING 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFOKIMIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


THE   PASSING    OF   THE    STORM 

AND    OTHER   POEMS 


The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 


NEWYORK        CHICAGO        TORONTO 

Fleming   H.   Revell   Company 

LONDON          AND          EDINBURGH 


'•  The  mountains  lay  in  calm  repose 
Slumbering  'neath  their  robes  of  white." 


See  pafje  17. 


'•The  mountains  lay  in  calm  repose 
Slumbering  'neath  their  robes  of  white.''' 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto  :  25  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London  :  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh  :  100  Princes  Street 


DEDICATION 

TO  A  RAPIDLY  DISAPPEARING  CLASS,  THE  PIONEER 
PROSPECTORS,  WHOSE  BRAVERY,  INTELLIGENCE  AND 
INDUSTRY  BLAZED  THE  TRAILS  IN  THE  WESTERN 
WILDERNESS  FOR  ADVANCING  CIVILIZATION,  AND  MADE 
POSSIBLE  THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  GREAT  WEST, 
THIS  VOLUME  IS  VERY  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED 


PREFACE 

Oh  that  my  words  were  now  written  ! 

Oh  that  they  were  inscribed  in  a  book  ! — JOB  xix,  23. 

BOOKS  have,  from  time  immemorial,  been  the  con 
servators  of  human  wisdom,  the  repositories  of  in 
formation,  the  mentors  of  youth  and  adolescence, 
the  counsellors  of  manhood,  the  comfort  and  com 
panionship  of  age. 

The  experience  of  an  individual,  school  or  era,  when 
committed  to  book  form,  becomes  the  common  prop 
erty  of  all  succeeding  time,  and  the  accumulated 
knowledge  of  the  past,  transmitted  from  generation 
to  generation,  through  the  medium  of  books,  may  with 
justice  be  regarded  as  the  most  valuable  of  human 
heritages. 

But  they  have  not  always  been  unmixed  bless 
ings;  they  have  both  led  and  misled;  they  have 
elucidated,  yet  have  mystified. 

They  have  dissipated  the  shadows  of  ignorance 
and  superstition,  but  in  some  instances  have  con 
fused  and  obscured  the  searchlight  of  truth.  In  the 
economy  of  human  affairs,  books  have  been  factors 
of  no  small  importance.  They  have  proved  the  most 
potent  expositors  of  iniquitous  systems,  and  when 
properly  directed  against  crying  evils  have  accom- 

7 


8  Preface 

plished  speedy  reforms.  They  have  precipitated 
wars,  incited  revolts  and  seditions  in  the  cause  of 
progress,  yet  have  intensified  prejudice,  political,  re 
ligious  and  racial.  With  silent  eloquence,  they  have 
cried  out  against  the  wrongs  of  those  who  had  none 
to  plead  their  cause,  while  in  other  cases,  their  in 
fluence  has  tended  to  perpetuate  existing  abuses. 
In  some  instances  they  have  taught  men  to  be  con 
tent  with  servitude,  in  others  have  ignited  the  bea 
con  fires  of  liberty.  Though  they  are  usually  found 
enlisted  under  the  banners  of  justice,  yet  no  cause 
has  ever  been  so  unworthy,  and  no  institution  so  un 
holy,  that  books  have  not  been  written  in  their  de 
fence.  In  verity,  they  have  sown  both  wheat  and 
tares. 

Books  have  been  written  on  every  conceivable  sub 
ject,  under  all  conditions,  by  all  sorts  of  writers,  and 
from  an  endless  variety  of  motives.  The  recom 
pense  of  those  who  have  written  them  has  been 
equally  various.  Some  have  been  apotheosized  and 
worshipped,  others  have  been  the  recipients  of  orders 
and  decorations  of  honor  at  the  hands  of  kings  and 
potentates,  while  others  have  received  the  ovations  of 
admiring  multitudes.  Some  have  anonymously  con 
tributed  their  mite  toward  the  enrichment  of  litera 
ture,  others  have  appeared,  from  whence  we  know 
not,  and  after  placing  their  offerings  upon  the 
altars  of  poesy  and  art  have  departed  unrewarded 
into  the  shadows  of  obscurity,  leaving  as  footprints 
innumerable  quotations  which  have  become  proverb- 


Preface  9 

ial.  Some,  as  the  bards  and  minnesingers  of  old  who 
in  mediaeval  castles  ate  their  bread  by  the  sufferance 
of  the  feudal  lords  and  barons,  have  in  more  recent 
years  been  dependent  upon  the  bounty  of  some  mu 
nificent,  and  usually  titled  patron,  to  whom  they,  as 
a  matter  of  policy,  dedicated  their  strains  and  pane 
gyrics,  consequently  wielding  mercenary  pens.  Some 
who  have  presumed  to  write  in  a  manner  displeasing 
to  those  who  sat  in  high  places  have  met  with  vil 
ification,  exile,  imprisonment,  decapitation,  and  have 
not  been  strangers  to  the  pillory.  Criticism  and 
ridicule  are  the  patent  rewards  of  incipient  author 
ship,  while  want,  neglect  and  starvation  have  ter 
minated  the  career  of  more  than  one  name  after 
wards  great  in  the  world  of  letters. 

Aside  from  motives  common  to  all  who  with 
reverent  steps  humbly  strive  to  follow  where  the 
great  lights  of  poesy  have  led,  the  author  of  these 
unpretentious  pages  has  been  actuated  by  a  desire  to 
portray,  in  his  correct  light,  a  very  frequently  mis 
represented  character,  viz. :  the  pioneer  prospector. 
It  has  long  been  customary  for  writers  of  western 
fiction  to  picture  this  character  as  a  large-hearted 
but  rough  and  untutored  individual,  expressing  him 
self  in  a  vernacular  consisting  of  equal  parts  of 
slang,  profanity  and  questionable  grammar,  pos 
sessing  no  ambitions  above  the  card  table  or  the 
strong  waters  which  cause  all  men  to  err  who  drink 
them.  An  intimate  acquaintance  with  this  class, 
extending  from  the  years  of  infancy  to  middle  age, 


10  Preface 

convinces  the  writer  that  the  common  description 
is  manifestly  unjust  and  misleading. 

The  men  who  flocked  to  the  early  gold  excitements, 
and  who  subsequently  prospected  the  western  moun 
tain  ranges  for  their  hidden  wealth,  were  the  cream 
of  American  and  European  manhood ;  men  possessed 
of  more  than  ordinary  endowments  of  intellect,  edu 
cation  and  physique,  while  their  industry,  bravery 
and  hardihood  have  never  been  questioned. 

Proof  of  this  exists  in  the  names  which  have  lin 
gered  behind  them  as  a  matter  of  record,  for  it 
was  the  prospector  who  christened  the  mountains, 
gulches  and  mining  locations  of  the  west.  A  cursory 
perusal  of  the  maps  of  mineral  surveys  in  any  west 
ern  mining  district,  will  reveal  in  abundance  such 
names  as  Hector,  Ajax,  Golden  Fleece,  Atlas, 
Pegasus,  etc. ;  indicating  that  those  who  applied 
them  were,  if  not  college  graduates,  men  not  un 
familiar  with  the  classics.  The  use  of  such  names 
as  Cleopatra,  Crusader  or  Magna  Charta,  by  a 
prospector  unversed  in  history,  would  naturally  be 
unexpected.  One  without  knowledge  of  literature 
would  hardly  grace  his  location  stakes  with  such 
names  as  Dante,  Hamlet  or  Mephistopheles,  while 
one  entirely  unlettered  could  not  by  chance  hit 
upon  such  names  as  Pandora,  Medusa  or  Sesostris. 

Of  the  pioneer  prospectors  but  few  remain ;  many 
have  fallen  asleep,  others  tiring  of  the  privation  and 
uncertainty  incident  to  a  miner's  life,  are  pursuing 
other  vocations,  while  many  have  become  prosperous 


Preface  1 1 

ranch  and  cattle-men  and  may  now  be  found  in 
almost  any  western  valley.  A  few,  a  very  few  in 
comparison  with  the  less  fortunate  majority,  ac 
quiring  a  competence,  removed  to  other  localities, 
and  in  not  a  few  instances,  have  become  conspicuous 
figures  in  the  world  of  business,  politics  and  finance. 
In  the  mountainous  districts  of  the  west,  you  may 
still  occasionally  see  a  veteran  prospector  of  the  old 
school,  living  the  life  of  a  hermit  in  his  log  cabin, 
situated  in  some  picturesque  park  or  gulch,  near  his, 
sometimes  valuable  but  more  frequently  worthless, 
mining  locations.  There  he  lives  winter  and  summer, 
his  only  companion  a  cat  or  dog;  the  ambitions  of 
his  youth  still  unrealized,  but  at  three  score  and  ten, 
hopeful  and  expectant.  His  bent  form,  white  hair, 
and  venerable  bearing  impress  you  strangely  at  first, 
but  it  is  only  when  you  overcome  the  reticence  pecu 
liar  to  those  who  have  long  dwelt  in  solitude,  and 
engage  him  in  conversation,  that  his  mental  status 
becomes  apparent.  To  your  surprise  you  discover 
that  he  can  converse  entertainingly  on  any  subject, 
from  the  Mosaic  dispensation,  to  the  latest  inven 
tions  in  the  world  of  mechanism.  You  may  find  him 
to  be,  not  only  a  Shakspearean  scholar,  but  a  deep 
student  of  that  volume  which,  whether  considered 
from  a  sacred  or  secular  point  of  view,  stands  pre 
eminently  forth  as  the  Book  of  Books.  You  may 
find  him  able  to  translate  Homer,  or  Virgil,  and 
that  the  masterpieces  of  literature  are  as  familiar 
to  him  as  his  own  cabin  walls.  A  glimpse  at  the 


12  Preface 

interior  of  his  cabin  discloses  an  ample  stock  of 
newspapers  and  magazines,  while  books  are  not 
strangers.  There  is  something  pathetic  about  his 
loneliness;  you  leave  him  with  the  feeling  that  so 
ciety  has  been  the  loser  by  his  voluntary  banishment, 
and  are  reminded  of  Gray's  immortal  lines: 

'  'Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

You  speculate  upon  the  story  of  his  life,  for  you 
feel  that  it  has  a  secret,  if  not  a  tragedy,  connected 
with  it,  into  which  you  may  not  probe.  You  ask 
yourself  the  question,  "Has  not  his  life  been 
wasted?"  and  if  he  alone  is  to  be  considered,  there 
is  none  but  an  affirmative  answer.  But  his  life  has 
not  been  barren  of  results.  He  has  been  a  contribu 
tory  factor  in  the  upbuilding  of  an  empire,  for  he  is 
one  of  the  class  who  laid  the  foundations  of  western 
prosperity. 

These  men  came  west  for  various  reasons,  some 
actuated  by  the  spirit  of  adventure,  some  to  acquire 
fortunes  or  to  retrieve  vanished  ones,  others  possibly 
to  outlive  the  stigma  of  youthful  mistakes.  In  the 
lives  of  many  of  them  are  sealed  chapters.  It  is  with 
such  that  these  pages  have  to  do. 

ALFRED  CASTNER  KING. 

OUBAY,  COLO.,  1907. 


CONTENTS 


The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

L            The  Storm 7-7 

//.           A  Chapter  from  an   Old  Mans  Life  28 

III.         The  Prisoner 

IF.         A  Sequel  of  the  Lost  Cause  .       .       . 

P.  The   Avalanche 

VI.  The  Rescue £>$ 

The  Blight  of  War  ....  J2 

The  Story  of  an  Exile  ....  £>J> 

IX.          Conclusion II Z 

Dolores 220 

Great   Shepherd  of  the  Countless  Flocks 

of  Stars 222 

13 


14  Contents 

Page 

The  Ruined  Cabin 123 

An  Idyll 124 

The  Borderland  of  Sleep 125 

Stellar  Nocturne 126 

Father,  at  Thy  Altar  Kneeling   .     .     .  I2J 

Dreams 128 

Nocturne I2Q 

The  True  Faith 131 

A  Fragment IJI 

Mortality 132 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing  Page 

"Tlie  mountains  lay  in  calm  repose 

Slumbering  'neath  their  robes  of  white."  .         Title. 


'As  stormy  cowls  their  summits  hid."    ...      17 


'  'Exceeding  the  tremendous  height 

Of  brother  peaks,  on  left  and  right."  26 


'  'Beseamed  with  countless  scars  and  rents 

From  combat  with  the  elements."       .       .       .     30 


f  'He  towered  with  mute  and  massive  form 

A  challenge  to  the  gathering  storm"  .       .       .     40 


'  'With  swift  and  spoliating  flow, 
Uprooting  many  a  noble  tree, 
To  strew  the  desert's  waste  below, 
With  scattered  drift-wood  and  debris."     .       .     50 


'  'Arrayed  in  Nature's  pristine  dress 

This  was,  indeed,  a  wilderness."       .       .      ~.     62 


•5 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing  Page 

'We  grew  as  two  twin  pines  might  grow, 

Upon  some  isolated  edge, 
Of  some  lone  precipice  or  ledge."     ....       70 


"The  noble  spruce  and  stately  fir 

Stood  draped  in  feathery  garniture."  .     .     .     114 


"From  the  mountain  peaks  crested  with  snow"    .     120 


"High  up  on  the  cliffs  in  their  dwellings 

Which  were  apertures  walled  up  with  rocks, 

.Lived  this  people,  sequestered  and  happy; 

Their  dwellings  now  serve  the  wild  fox."      .     126 


"As  it  fearlessly  leaps  o'er  the  rocky  wall 

From  the  mountain  peaks  stern  and  hoary"  .     130 


"I  love  the  lake  in  the  mountain's  lap."     .     .     .     134 


The  Passing  of  the  Storm 


I.    THE  STORM 


Reflecting,  in  their  crystal  snows, 
The  glittering  jewels  of  the  night, 
The  mountains  lay  in  calm  repose 
Slumbering  'neath  their  robes  of  white. 

The  stars  grew  dim, — a  film  instead, 
The  twinkling  heavens  overspread, 
Through  which  their  eyes  essayed  to  peer, 
Each  moment  less  distinct  and  clear, 
Till,  when  the  stellar  beacons  failed, 
A  darkness  unrelieved,  prevailed. 

Out  of  the  ambient  depths  of  gloom, 
Bereft  of  its  accustomed  bloom, 
Came  day-break,  comfortless  and  gray. 
Sped  the  nocturnal  shades  away, 
Unveiling,  with  their  winged  retreat, 
A  twilight  sad  and  incomplete. 
Reluctantly,  as  dawn  aspired, 
The  shadows  lingered,  then  retired 
As  vanquished  armies  often  yield 
Upon  a  well-contested  field, 

17 


18  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

And  sullenly  retrace  their  course 
Before  an  overwhelming  force. 

Within  the  east  no  purple  light 
Proclaimed  the  passing  of  the  night; 
No  crimson  blush  appeared  to  warn 
The  landscape  of  returning  morn. 
Discarding  all  the  gorgeous  dyes, 
Wherewith  the  sunset  tints  the  skies, 
And  mingling  with  the  azure  blue, 
The  warp  and  woof  of  sober  hue ; 
The  fairies  of  the  air,  I  wist, 
Had  spun  a  silvery  web  of  mist, 
Whose  texture,  ominous  and  gray, 
Obscured  the  glories  of  the  day. 

Such  was  the  dreary  winter's  day, 
Which  dawned  with  dull  and  leaden  sky ; 
No  cheerful  penetrating  ray 
Flashed  from  the  sun's  resplendent  eye. 
In  vain,  through  rift  and  orifice, 
He  strove  with  radiant  beam  to  kiss 
Each  mountain  peak  and  dizzy  height, 
Apparelled  in  their  garbs  of  white, 
And  crown  each  brow,  so  bleak  and  cold, 
With  burnished  diadem  of  gold. 

Ascending  in  aerial  flight, 

The  wheel  of  fire  did  not  appear, 

To  dissipate  the  fogs  of  night 


The  Storm  19 

And  clarify  the  atmosphere. 

Seeking  with  fervent  ray  and  fierce, 

The  canopy  of  cloud  to  pierce, 

The  orb  of  day,  stripped  of  his  flame, 

A  circle,  ill-defined,  became, 

As  through  the  ever-thickening  haze, 

His  feeble  outline  met  the  gaze. 

This  faded  till  his  glowing  face 

Left  no  suggestive  spot  or  trace, 

No  corollary  on  the  pall 

Which  settled  and  pervaded  all. 

As  stormy  cowls  their  summits  hid, 
In  turret,  tower  and  pyramid, 
Of  stately  and  majestic  mien, 
Was  nature's  architecture  seen. 
From  yawning  chasm  and  abyss, 
Rose  minaret  and  precipice, 
Carved  by  the  tireless  hand  of  time, 
In  forms  fantastic,  yet  sublime, 
While  spires  impregnable  and  high, 
Were  profiled  on  the  lowering  sky. 

Exceeding  the  tremendous  height 
Of  brother  peaks,  on  left  and  right, 
In  his  commanding  station  placed, 
The  giant  of  the  rocky  waste 
With  awe-inspiring  aspect  stood, 
The  sentry  of  the  solitude, 
Guarding  the  mountainous  expanse 
With  his  imposing  battlements. 


20  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

In  rock-ribbed  armor  panoplied, 

With  rugged  walls  on  every  side, 

Beseamed  with,  countless  scars  and  rents, 

From  combat  with  the  elements, 

He  towered  with  mute  and  massive  form, 

A  challenge  to  the  gathering  storm. 

This  overshadowing  mountain  peak 
In  solemn  silence  seemed  to  speak 
A  prophecy  of  arctic  doom; 
As  in  his  frigid  splendor  dressed, 
He  reared  aloft  his  frozen  crest, 
Surmounted  by  a  snowy  plume. 
His  wrinkled  and  forbidding  brow 
A  sombre  shadow  seemed  to  throw 
O'er  other  crags  as  wild  and  stern, 
Which  frowned  defiance  in  return. 

The  wind,  lugubrious  and  sad, 

In  doleful  accents,  soft  and  low, 

Mourned  through  the  dismal  forests,  clad 

In  weird  habiliments  of  snow, 

As  if,  forsooth,  the  sylvan  ghosts 

Had  mobilized  in  pallid  hosts, 

To  haunt  their  rugged  solitudes, 

The  spectres  of  departed  woods. 

And  with  uninterrupted  flow 

The  streamlet,  underneath  the  snow, 

Answered  the  wind's  despondent  moan 

With  plaint  of  gurgling  monotone ; 


The  Storm  21 

Or,  locked  in  winter's  stern  embrace, 
No  longer  trickled  in  its  bed, 
But  found  a  frigid  resting  place 
In  stationary  ice,  instead. 
The  crystal  snowflakes  gently  fell, 
Enrobing  mountain,  plain  and  dell, 
In  mantle  spotless  and  complete, 
As  nature  in  her  winding  sheet. 
Layer  upon  layer  fell  fast  and  deep 
Till  every  cliff,  abrupt  and  steep, 
Was  crowned  with  coronal  of  white. 
Capricious  gusts,  which  whirl  and  sift, 
Built  comb  and  overhanging  drift, 
From  feathery  flakes  so  soft  and  light. 

More  thickly  flew  the  snow  and  fast ; 
The  wind  developed  and  the  blast 
Soon  churned  the  tempest,  till  the  air 
Seemed  but  a  white  and  whirling  glare, 
Through  which  the  penetrating  eye 
No  shape  nor  contour  might  descry. 

The  poor  belated  traveller, 

Who  braved  the  rigor  of  that  day, 

Might  thank  his  bright  protecting  star, — 

If  orbs  of  pure  celestial  ray, 

Far  in  the  scintillating  skies, 

Preside  o'er  human  destinies, — 

That  he,  bewildered  and  distressed, 

Had  warded  off  exhaustion's  rest, 


22  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

And  in  that  maze  of  pine  and  fir 
Escaped  an  icy  sepulchre. 


When  driving  snows  accumulate, 

They  yield  to  the  tremendous  weight. 

And  down  the  mountain's  rugged  sides 

The  mass  with  great  momentum  slides, 

Cleaving  the  fragile  spruce  and  pine, 

Which  stand  in  its  ill-fated  line, 

As  bearded  grain,  mature  and  lithe, 

Goes  down  before  the  reaper's  scythe. 

Or,  when  the  cyclone's  baleful  force, 

In  flood  of  atmospheric  wrath, 

Pursues  its  devastating  course, 

Leaving  but  ruin  in  its  path; 

Despoiling  in  a  moment's  span 

The  most  exalted  works  of  man; 

Or  waters,  suddenly  set  free, 

When  some  black  thunder  cloud  is  rent, 

Rush  down  a  wild  declivity 

With  irresistible  descent, 

Depositing  on  every  hand 

A  layer  of  sediment  and  sand ; 

With  swift  and  spoliating  flow, 

Uprooting  many  a  noble  tree, 

To  strew  the  desert  wastes  below 

With  scattered  drift-wood  and  debris; 

Such  is  the  dreadful  avalanche, 

Which  rends  the  forest,  root  and  branch. 


The  Storm  23 

From  dangers  in  such  varied  form, 

And  the  discomforts  of  the  storm, 

Small  wonder  'twas  the  mountaineer 

Left  not  his  fireside's  ruddy  cheer; 

But  from  behind  the  bolted  door 

Discerned  the  tempest's  strident  roar, 

Or  heard  the  pendent  icicle, 

Which,  from  the  eaves,  in  fragments  fell, 

As  some  more  formidable  blast 

In  paroxysmal  fury  passed. 

It  shook  with  intermittent  throes, 

Of  boisterous,  spasmodic  power, 

A  most  substantial  hut,  which  rose, 

As  summer  breeze  sways  grass  or  flower 

And  e'en  the  dull  immobile  ground 

Trembled  in  sympathy  profound. 

Such  was  the  fury  of  the  storm, 
As  if  the  crystal  flakes  had  met 
With  militating  hosts,  to  swarm 
In  siege  about  its  parapet. 

When  every  rampant  onslaught  failed, 
The  blast  in  wanton  frenzy  wailed. 
As  if  with  unspent  rage  the  wind 
Felt  much  disgruntled  and  chagrined, 
And  though  of  nugatory  force, 
Could  vent  its  spleen  with  accents  hoarse. 
As  some  beleaguered  tower  of  old 
Besieged  by  warriors  stern  and  bold, 


24:  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Who  dashed  against  its  walls  of  stone, 
Which  were  not  swayed  nor  overthrown; 
As  vicious  strokes  delivered  well, 
Innocuous  and  futile  fell. 
Then  watched  the  walls  withstand  the  strain, 
And  cursed  and  gnashed  their  teeth  in  vain. 

Beneath  a  massive  pinnacle, 
Whose  weird,  forbidding  shadows  fell, 
And  gulch  and  forest  overcast 
With  mantle  ominous  and  vast, 
Nestling  amid  the  spruce  and  pine, 
Which  fringe  the  edge  of  timberline, 
This  miner's  cabin,  quaint  and  rude, 
From  the  surrounding  forest  hewed, 
With  primitive,  yet  stable  form, 
Withstood  the  onslaught  of  the  storm, 
And  at  the  entrance  of  a  dell 
Stood  as  a  rustic  sentinel. 

Beneath  a  pine's  protecting  skirt, 

It  reared  its  modest  roof  of  poles, 

Laid  close,  then  overlaid  with  dirt, 

To  cover  up  the  cracks  and  holes; 

The  intervals  between  the  logs 

Were  daubed  with  mud  from  mountain  bogs. 

The  ground  did  service  as  a  floor 

In  this,  as  many  huts  before ; 

So  beaten  down  beneath  the  tread, 

It  more  resembled  tile  instead. 


The  Storm  25 

The  plastic  clay,  compressed  and  sleek, 
Was  level  and  as  hard  as  brick. 
Protruding  boulders,  smooth  and  bare, 
Exposed  their  faces  here  and  there ; 
And  with  their  surfaces  displayed, 
A  primitive  mosaic  made. 
And,  terminating  in  a  stack, 
Some  feet  above  the  cabin's  roof, 
The  fireplace,  comfortless  and  black, 
Arose  the  dingy  form  uncouth. 
This  object  of  depressing  gloom, 
Built  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
When  filled  with  lurid  tongues  of  flame, 
A  cheerful  cynosure  became. 


The  furnishings  within  were  crude ; 

A  table  fastened  to  the  wall 

Had  been  with  some  exertion  hewed 

From  aspen  timbers  straight  and  tall, 

And  was,  in  lieu  of  table  legs, 

Supported  by  protruding  pegs. 

A  cracker  box,  with  shelves  inside, 

The  leading  corner  occupied, 

And  made  an  ample  cupboard  there, 

Where  tin  supplanted  chinaware. 

A  frying  pan,  which  from  a  nail 

Suspended,  dripped  a  greasy  trail. 

Framed  from  the  hemlock's  poles  and  boughs, 

The  rustic  bunks  within  the  house 


26  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Were  not  elaborate  affairs ; 

While  boxes  filled  the  place  of  chairs. 

Tacked  on  the  unpretentious  wall 

Were  advertisements,  great  and  small, 

While  lithograph  and  crayon  scenes, 

Clipped  from  the  standard  magazines, 

Comprised  a  mimic  gallery, 

Which  broke  the  wall's  monotony. 

No  carpets  were  upon  that  floor, 

But  at  the  bottom  of  the  door 

The  rug,  against  its  yawning  crack, 

Consisted  of  a  gunny-sack. 

Nor  was  there  lock  upon  that  door, 

The  guardian  of  sordid  pelf ; 

The  traveller,  distressed  and  sore, 

Might  enter  there  and  help  himself. 

Within  this  weather-beaten  hut 
Of  logs,  by  many  a  tempest  tried, 
With  doors  and  windows  closely  shut, 
To  keep  the  genial  warmth  inside; 
A  group  of  hardy  mountaineers, 
Blockaded  by  the  winter's  snow, 
Sat  by  the  fireside's  ruddy  glow. 
Some  old,  and  old  beyond  their  years, 
As  disappointments,  toil  and  strife, 
Which  constitute  the  miner's  life, 
Must  operate  with  process  sure, 
Toward  age,  unduly  premature; 


The  Storm  27 

For  years,  in  stern  privation  spent, 
Are  traced  in  seam  and  lineament, 
Which  gives  the  patriarchal  face 
Its  rugged  dignity  and  grace. 

Although  by  fond  illusions  led, 
Through  phantasies  of  empty  air, 
Which  mark  an  ultimate  despair, 
The  miner  still  sees  hope  ahead. 
The  prospector  could  never  cope 
With  dangers  and  realities, 
But  for  the  visionary  hope 
Which  both  deceives  and  mollifies, 
Alluring  him  with  siren  song 
Her  vague  uncertain  paths  along. 

Yet  some,  this  stalwart  group  among, 

Were  adolescent, — even  young. 

For  hearts,  which  youthful  breasts  conceal, 

Oft  burn  with  energetic  zeal, 

To  ope,  with  labor's  patient  key, 

The  mountain's  hidden  treasury. 

Most  furiously  it  blew  and  snowed, 
Most  cheerily  the  firelight  glowed, 
And  as  the  forked  tongues  of  flame, 
In  fierce  combustion,  writhed  and  burned, 
Nor  moment's  space  remained  the  same, 
The  conversation  swayed  and  turned. 


28  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

For  tales  were  told  of  avalanche, 
Of  army  scenes,  of  mine  and  ranch, 
Of  wily  politician's  snares, 
Of  gold  excitements,  smallpox  scares, 
Of  England's  debt  and  grizzly  bears. 

When  all  but  three  their  stories  told 
Of  tropic  heat,  or  arctic  cold, 
The  conversation  dragged  at  length, 
An  interim  for  future  strength. 
Outspoke  a  voice:   "Let  Uncle  Jim 
Some  past  experience  relate, 
For  Fate  has  kindly  granted  him, 
At  least,  diversity  of  fate." 

II.    A  CHAPTER  FROM  AN  OLD  MAN'S  LIFE 

As  ample  wreaths  of  curling  smoke 
From  his  time-honored  meerschaum  broke, 
A  kindly-faced,  gray-bearded  man 
Rose  up  and  sadly  thus  began, — 
"You  ask  a  tale, — well,  I'll  express 
The  reason  why  in  manhood's  prime 
I  left  a  more  congenial  clime 
And  sought  this  rugged  wilderness." 
But,  gentle  reader,  don't  expect 
A  tale  in  mongrel  dialect, 
For  "Uncle  Jim,"  or  James  T.  Hale, 
Who  lived  as  anchorite  or  monk, 
Once  led  the  senior  class  at  Yale, 


A  Chapter  from  an   Old  Man's  Life     29 

And  had  his  sheepskin  in  his  trunk. 

There,  while  the  crackling  flames  leaped  high, 

And  serpentine  gyrations  played 

Around  the  logs  of  hemlock,  dry, 

And  with  the  tempest  seethed  and  swayed, 

As  curled  the  drowsy  wreaths  of  smoke 

Above  his  pipe,  the  old  man  spoke : 

"  'Twas  on  a  day  about  like  this, 

When,  fresh  from  youthful  haunts  and  scenes, 

I  first  beheld  yon  precipice, 

And  sought  these  gulches  and  ravines, 

To  pan,  despite  the  frost  and  cold, 

For  shining  particles  of  gold ; 

And  hewed  the  rocker  and  the  sluice 

From  out  the  native  pine  and  spruce. 

Arrayed  in  nature's  pristine  dress 

This  was  indeed  a  wilderness. 

Nor  eye  of  eagle  ever  viewed 

A  more  forbidding  solitude, 

Nor  prospect  more  completely  drear 

Confronted  hardy  pioneer. 

Why  came  I  here?    My  simple  tale 
Goes  back  to  a  New  England  vale. 
It  is,  though  simple  tale  it  be, 
A  life's  unwritten  tragedy : 
A  story,  with  few  incidents, 
But  many  years  of  penitence. 


30  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

As  one,  for  some  foul  crime  pursued, 
Doth  flee,  in  frenzy  rash  and  blind 
To  wilderness  or  solitude, 
I  fled,  to  leave  my  past  behind. 

I  loved  a  maid,  both  fair  and  true, 
Just  where,  it  matters  not,  nor  who. 
For  forty  years,  with  silent  tread, 
Have  silvered  many  a  raven  head, 
Since  on  her  wealth  of  auburn  hair 
The  moonlight  shimmered,  soft  and  fair, 
As  where  the  pine  and  hemlock  stood 
And  sighed  in  answer  to  the  breeze, 
With  but  the  stars  as  witnesses, 
Our  troth  was  plighted  in  the  wood ; 
A  simple  rustic  tale  in  truth, 
Of  love  and  sentimental  youth. 

Love  is  the  subtle  mystery, 
The  charm,  the  esoteric  spell, 
Which  lures  the  seraph  from  on  High. 
To  leave  the  Throne  of  Light,— for  Hell,- 
And  with  resistless  shackles  binds, 
In  viewless  thrall,  the  captive  minds. 
For  who  can  fathom  love's  caprice, 
Supplant  her  fervid  wars  with  peace, 
And  passion's  ardent  flame  command? 
Or  who  presume  to  understand 
And  read  with  cabalistic  art 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  heart? 


A  Chapter  from  an  Old  Man's  Life     31 

Nor  eye  of  regent,  skilled  to  rule, 

Nor  sage  from  earth's  profoundest  school, 

Nor  erudite  philosophy 

On  wisdom's  heights,  pretend  to  see 

The  fervent  secrets  of  the  breast, 

Which  rankle  mute  and  unexpressed. 

Nor  the  angelic  hosts  above 

In  their  exuberance  of  love, 

Nor  demons  from  the  pit  can  span 

The  depths  of  woman's  love  for  man. 

And  men,  of  love's  sweet  flame  bereft, 

Have  but  the  brutal  instincts  left. 

She,  too,  my  youthful  love  returned, 

Each  breast  with  throb  responsive  yearned, 

The  oracles  of  passion  sweet, 

All  augured  happiness  complete. 

But,  ere  the  nuptial  knot  was  bound, 

A  whispered  rumor  crept  around, 

A  whispered  rumor,  such  as  rise 

From  nothing  to  colossal  size ; 

Though  none  their  origin  can  trace, 

Nor  ferret  out  the  starting  place, 

Which  start  sometimes,  in  idle  jest, 

When  knowing  looks  imply  the  rest. 

The  lightest  rumor,  or  the  worst, 

May  be  discredited  at  first, 

But  oft  repeated  and  received 

Is  soon  unconsciously  believed. 

Though  inconsistent  and  abstract, 


32  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Fanned  by  insinuating  tongues, 
Imaginary  faults  and  wrongs 
Soon  gain  the  currency  of  fact. 
The  purest  acts  are  misconstrued 
By  the  lascivious  and  lewd, 
And  envy  loves  to  lie  in  wait 
With  fangs  imbrued  in  venomed  hate. 
This  slander,  born  of  jealousy, 
Was  told  as  solemn  truth  to  me, 
By  tongues  I  deemed  immaculate. 


Alas!  that  shafts  from  falsehood's  bow 
Should  undetected  cleave  the  air, 
Or  wanton  hands  in  malice  sow 
The  tares  of  discord  and  despair. 
For  every  seed  of  falsehood  sown 
Brings  forth  a  harvest  of  its  own, 
And  ears,  most  ready  to  believe, 
Are  difficult  to  undeceive. 
Alas !  that  shafts  from  falsehood's  tongue 
Should  fall  suspicious  ears  among, 
And  be  received,  and  nursed,  forsooth, 
As  arrows  of  unblemished  truth : 
Maligning  spotless  innocence, 
With  grave  impeachments  of  offence. 
Their  crime,  of  heinous  crimes  the  worst, 
With  multiplied  damnation  cursed, 
Who,  lost  to  every  sense  of  shame, 
Assassinate  a  woman's  name. 


A  Chapter  from  an   Old  Man's  Life     33 

For  such,  with  trumped-up  calumnies, 
Would  drag  an  angel  from  the  skies, 
And  stain  its  vestal  robes  of  white 
With  slander's  sable  hues  of  night, 
Holding  to  ridicule  and  shame 
The  ruins  of  a  once  fair  name. 

Who  so,  from  slander's  chalice  sips, 
May  greet  you  with  a  friendly  kiss, 
Nor  may  the  foul,  envenomed  lips 
Betray  the  adder's  sting  and  hiss. 
The  fairest  flowrets  of  the  field 
The  rankest  poisons  often  yield, 
And  falsehood  loves  to  hide  her  tooth 
'Neath  the  habiliments  of  truth. 
This  scandal,  venomous  and  vile, 
Had  no  foundation  but  a  smile, 
But  on  it  wagging  tongues  had  built 
A  massive  pyramid  of  guilt. 

In  evil  hour,  I,  too,  believed 
For  fabrications  more  absurd 
Than  the  aspersions  I  had  heard 
Have  wiser  ears  than  mine  deceived. 
I  fought  suspicion,  vainly  tried 
To  cast  each  rising  doubt  aside. 
But  he  who  lists  to  tales  of  ill 
Believes  in  part,  despite  his  will. 
Then  in  my  face,  as  in  a  book, 
She  read  one  sad  distrustful  look, 


34  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

A  look  of  pity,  yet  of  doubt, 
For  silence  cries  most  loudly  out, 
And  who  can  smile  with  visage  bright 
To  shield  misgivings  black  as  night? 


Unhappy  trait  that  in  us  lies ! 
We  doubt  the  verdict  of  our  eyes ; 
We  doubt  each  faculty  and  sense, 
Yet  credit  sham  and  false  pretence. 
We  question  Truth,  and  much  prefer 
To  list  to  Falsehood,  than  to  her: 
And  that,  which  most  substantial  seems, 
We  doubt,  yet  place  our  faith  in  dreams. 
We  doubt  the  pearl  of  purest  white, 
We  doubt  the  diamond  clear  and  bright, 
And  yet  accept  the  base  and  flawed, 
Yes,  revel  in  all  forms  of  fraud. 

That  moment's  lack  of  confidence, 
The  shadow  of  remote  offence, 
Cost  each  the  sweetest  joys  of  life, 
Cost  her  a  husband,  me  a  wife. 

Ere  yet  that  month  its  course  had  spent, 

In  time's  continuous  descent, 

Her  race  had  been  forever  hid 

Beneath  the  sod  and  coffin  lid. 

Then  slanderous  tongues  forgot  their  lies, 

And  wagged  in  glowing  eulogies. 


A  Chapter  from  an  Old  Mans  Life     35 

Though  tears,  the  pearls  of  sorrow  be, 
And  many  o'er  her  grave  were  shed, 
Mine  was  a  tearless  agony, 
A  deeper,  dry-eyed  grief  instead. 

That  rumor,  void  of  fact  or  proof, 
Too  late  betrayed  the  cloven  hoof. 
Too  late,  alas !  'twas  given  me 
To  recognize  its  falsity. 

Within  a  rural  burial  place, 

A  rude,  though  quaint,  necropolis, 

Where,  through  the  growth  of  hemlock  trees, 

Is  borne  the  requiem  of  the  breeze ; 

Where  stand  the  funeral  pines  as  plumes, 

Above  the  scattered  graves  and  tombs, 

And  sigh,  with  drooping  branches  spread, 

In  sylvan  dirges  for  the  dead; 

Beneath  a  fir  tree's  sombre  shade, 

My  last  adieu  to  her  was  made. 

Close  by  the  slab  of  graven  stone, 
Which  marks  her  place  of  silent  rest, 
I  knelt  at  midnight,  and  alone, 
Then  rose  and  started  for  the  West." 


The  wind  in  temporary  lull, 
Had  dwindled  to  a  plaintive  moan ; 
As  if  in  mournful  monotone, 
Her  cup  of  anguish  being  full, 


36  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Sad  nature's  fountain-heads  of  bale 

Had  overflowed  with  plaint  and  wail. 

In  palpitating  throbs  of  woe, 

It  now  arose  and  whirled  the  snow 

With  triple  energy  renewed, 

Filling  the  dismal  solitude 

With  woeful  shriekings  of  despair, 

As  demon  orgies  in  the  air, 

And  culminated  in  a  roar 

More  violent  than  aught  before. 


At  length  another  timely  lull 
Made  human  voices  audible. 
As  Uncle  Jim  resumed  his  seat, 
A  voice  cried  out  for  Russian  Pete. 


III.     THE  PRISONER 

Of  Russian  Pete  but  little  had  been  known, 

He  liked  to  read  and  be  so  much  alone ; 

No  more  his  close  associates  could  tell, 

Save  that  he  spoke  the  English  language  well. 

About  this  stranger  with  the  clever  tongue, 

An  air  of  mystery  and  sadness  clung. 

His  name,  so  long  and  unpronounceable, 

Which  none  could  frame,  much  less  presume  to  spell, 

Waiving  abridgment,  partial  or  complete, 

Was,  by  the  boys,  transformed  to  "Russian  Pete." 


The  Prisoner  37 

Now  Russian  Pete  was  tall  and  strong  of  limb, 
Nor  more  than  half  as  old  as  Uncle  Jim, 
Of  noble  stature  and  commanding  brow, 
With  knees  which  in  no  genuflections  bow. 
His  face  was  sad,  the  index  of  a  breast 
Where  memory's  fires  were  raging  unsuppressed. 
With  eyes  which  search  in  closest  scrutiny, 
Nor  yet  offend  the  object  they  would  see. 
One,  who  from  feature,  act  and  equipoise, 
Had  known  life's  sorrows  better  than  its  joys. 
A  man  whom  you  would  notice  in  the  street, 
And  know  the  second  time  if  you  should  meet. 

This  man  of  mystery  and  intellect 

Arose,  and  stood  in  manhood's  poise  erect. 

In  tone  of  voice  so  musical  and  clear 

It  might  have  charmed  the  most  exacting  ear, 

And  wealth  of  language  few  can  hope  to  reach, 

Nor  trace  of  foreign  accent  in  his  speech, 

He  forthwith  spake :   "My  simple  tale  shall  be. 

Not  one  of  love,  but  dire  captivity. 

Like  Uncle  Jim's,  however,  it  contains 

The  cause  why  I  forsook  my  native  plains. 

No  tender  web  of  sentiment,  but  one 

By  treachery  and  machination  spun. 

Across  the  sea,  in  distant  realms  afar, 
In  the  remote  dominions  of  the  Czar, 
Past  where  the  Dnieper  rolls  his  murky  flood, 
Surcharged  with  fertilizing  silt  and  mud, 


38  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Past  the  dark  forests  and  productive  plains, 

Which  he  with  many  a  tributary  drains; 

Within  that  city  whose  inhabitants, 

With  flaming  torch,  withstood  the  arms  of  France, 

Preferring  ruin  to  the  victor's  boast, 

Or  occupation  by  an  alien  host. 

Fair  Moscow,  which  became  a  funeral  pyre, 

And  perished  in  her  self-ignited  fire, 

That  her  invaders,  chilled  by  snow  and  sleet, 

Might  sink  in  irretrievable  defeat. 

A  few  years  since,  the  date  concerns  us  not, 

A  minor  detail  readily  forgot, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  noblest  spire, 

There  dwelt  two  students,  children  of  one  sire. 


With  prospects  fair  at  manhood's  budding  edge, 

In  caste  esteemed  of  no  base  parentage; 

Two  students,  versed  in  languages,  and  planned 

For  consul  service  in  a  distant  land, 

As  foreign  usages  are  studied  most, 

When  one  aspires  to  diplomatic  post. 

Thus  eagerly,  did  we  acquire  the  tongue 

Of  you,  whom  I  address  and  live  among. 

With  lucubrations  diligent,  we  sought 

Our  ways  up  varied  avenues  of  thought, 

Until  by  prejudice  no  longer  bound, 

We  stood  at  last  upon  dissenting  ground ; 

Or  wavered,  where  reluctant  doubts  confuse, 

In  that  strange  zone  of  ruminating  views, 


The  Prisoner  39 

Where  progress  and  established  custom  meet; 
Yes,  crossed  its  boundaries  with  reckless  feet. 

In  that  stern  Empire,  on  disruption's  brink, 

Some  things  you  may, — and  some  you  may  not, — 

think; 

Express  yourself,  and  instantly  disgraced, 
Your  steps  may  point  toward  a  Siberian  waste; 
Your  substance  confiscated  by  a  court 
Where  equity  is  but  a  theme  for  sport ; 
Extol  your  theories,  proffer  your  advice, 
And  chains  or  banishment  may  be  the  price. 

For  despot  hands,  since  might's  initial  sway, 

Have  fashioned  chains  for  worthier  hands  than  they; 

And  oftentimes  beneath  the  tyrant's  heel 

Are  crushed  the  lives  which  strive  for  human  weal; 

Who  dare  to  hold  the  gonfalon  aloft 

For  human  rights  and  progress,  yes,  how  oft 

Since  Cain  that  fratricidal  murder  wrought, 

Have  death  and  durance  been  the  price  of  thought! 

He  who  espouses  radical  reform 

Invites  upon  his  head  the  gathering  storm; 

Each  forward  step  from  Custom's  hackneyed  school, 

Draws  forth  the  floods  of  scorn  and  ridicule; 

Witness  the  dungeon,  guillotine  and  rack, 

Chains  for  the  feet  and  scourges  for  the  back ; 

Bestrewn  with  insult,  diatribe  and  cuff, 

The  pathway  of  reform  was  ever  rough; 


40  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

And  when  reforms,  as  tidal  waves  have  come, 
The  foremost  breakers  dash  to  martyrdom. 

Perhaps,  in  youth's  enthusiastic  heat 

We  may  have  been  a  little  indiscreet, 

When  we,  thus  inexperienced  and  young, 

Against  oppression  dared  to  raise  the  tongue. 

Perhaps  'twere  best  to  tarnish  manhood's  brow 

With  servile  adulation,  and  to  bow 

With  craven  salaam  and  obeisance,  down 

In  sycophantic  homage  to  a  crown. 

What,  though  the  diadem  its  blazon  rears 

Above  a  population's  groans  and  tears! 

What,  though  the  paths  of  tyranny  be  strew'd 

With  suspirations  of  the  multitude ! 

If  one  but  bask  within  the  regal  smile, 

Why  strive  against  injustice,  fraud  and  guile? 

Or,  why  enlist  the  sympathetic  pen, 

Though  thrones  may  crush  the  liberties  of  men? 

One  inadvertent  hour,  some  chance  remark 
Was  misconstrued  with  application  dark; 
For  little  is  required  as  an  excuse 
When  private  ends  are  furthered  by  abuse; 
Suspicion's  tunes  are  played  with  greatest  ease, 
When  jealousy  manipulates  the  keys. 
What  followed,  it  were  wearisome  to  tell, 
Save  that  we  found  ourselves  within  a  cell, 
Charged  with  sedition  and  conspiracy, 
By  those  more  likely  to  conspire  than  we. 


"He  towered  with  mute  and  massive  form 
A  challenge  to  the  gathering  storm." 


See  page  20. 


The  Prisoner  41 

Three  days  were  we,  in  custody  detained, 
In  stern  abeyance  formally  constrained. 
Within  a  court,  where  no  protesting  word 
From  prisoner  or  counsel  may  be  heard ; 
A  court,  where  no  forensic  eloquence 
May  quash  the  allegations  of  offence; 
Our  doom  was  sealed,  by  a  capricious  judge 
Who  thereby  satisfied  a  family  grudge. 

The  sentence  passed,  the  stalwart  Cossack  guard 
Straightway  transferred  us  to  a  prison  yard. 
There  parted  we,  before  its  grated  door ; 
They  dragged  him  in, — and  he  was  seen  no  more. 

Another  door,  with  dull  metallic  sound 
Was  closed,  and  I  was  hurried  underground, 
Through  labyrinth  of  passages  and  halls, 
Past  dingy  arches  and  protruding  walls, 
Where  gloom  perpetual  the  eye  obscures, 
Through  damp  recesses,  nooks  and  apertures, 
With  foul  effluvia  and  odors  filled, 
By  darkness,  dampness  and  decay  distilled. 
For  noisome  vapors  float  in  gaseous  waves, 
In  cavern  depths  of  men-created  caves, 
And  generate  in  humid  warmth  or  cold 
The  loathsome  mildew  and  corrupting  mould. 

At  length,  through  cruel  maze  of  grate  and  stone, 
By  paths  circuitous  and  ways  unknown, 


42  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

We  reached  the  cell, — as  hideous  a  den, 

As  ever  held  unwilling  beasts  or  men. 

And  soon  with  manacles  securely  bound, 

Myself  its  only  occupant  I  found. 

A  dungeon,  dimly  lighted  and  obscure, 

With  pools  of  water,  stagnant  and  impure, 

Whose  noxious  exhalations  permeate 

The  deadened  air,  which  could  not  circulate; 

And  laden  with  malignant  slime  and  ooze, 

Upon  the  walls  discharged  in  baneful  dews; 

Or  else  precipitate,  with  vapory  loss, 

Enrobed  the  cruel  stones  with  pendent  moss. 

And  water,  foul  as  e'er  offended  lip, 

Fell  from  the  roof  with  intermittent  drip. 

Remote  from  daylight,  dismal  and  unsunned, 

Decompositions  stored  a  teeming  fund 

Of  molecules  and  organisms  strange, 

In  an  invisible  but  constant  change. 

As  stagnant  waters  generate  a  froth, 

These,  with  spontaneous  and  fungous  growth, 

Had  draped  the  dungeon's  limited  expanse 

With  toadstool,  bulb  and  foul  protuberance. 

These  from  the  air  its  milder  virtues  drank, 

Supplanting  ichors,  venemous  and  dank, 

Whose  essence  deleterious,  the  while, 

Exudes  in  savors  and  miasmas  vile. 


High  on  the  wall,  a  double-grated  slit 
A  slender  ray  of  sunshine  would  admit 


The  Prisoner  43 

On  pleasant  mornings,  when  the  sky  was  clear 

From  leaden  fogs  and  hazy  atmosphere. 

A  ray  of  sunlight,  yes,  a  welcome  ray, 

A  wholesome  beam,  but  just  too  far  away. 

Although  I  tugged  at  the  remorseless  chain 

And  strove  to  reach  that  sunbeam,  'twas  in  vain ; 

The  lambent  gleam  which  broke  into  the  cell 

Alone  on  toad  and  savage  rodent  fell. 

In  vain  I  wrenched  the  manacles,  in  vain 

I  sought  to  rend  the  cruel  gyves  in  twain, 

Strove,  with  contortions  painful  and  extreme, 

To  lay  my  head  within  this  gladsome  beam, 

Or  even  touch  it  with  the  finger-tip ; 

In  vain, — no  galling  chain  relaxed  its  grip. 


A  ray  of  sunlight  just  beyond  my  reach, 

Like  Tantalus,  as  ancient  classics  teach, 

When  for  duplicity  and  theft  immersed, 

In  rippling  waters,  doomed  to  ceaseless  thirst, — 

For  as  his  parching  lips  essayed  to  drink, 

The  mocking  waters  would  recede,  or  sink ; 

Though  luscious  fruits  hung  pendent  in  his  sight, 

To  coax  the  palate  and  the  appetite, 

Whene'er  his  hand  reached  forth  with  eager  thrust, 

Those  selfsame  fruits  resolved  to  baleful  dust. 

That  sunbeam,  though  an  aggravation  fair, 

Still  closed  the  floodgates  of  complete  despair. 

As  dykes  constrain,  in  distant  lowrland  realms, 

The  deluge,  which  engulfs  and  overwhelms. 


44  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

With  final  resource  and  expedient 
And  all  her  vials  of  expectation  spent, 
Fate,  in  her  changeable  kaleidoscope, 
Evolves  new  turns  to  reestablish  hope. 
That  ray  of  sunshine,  as  an  angel's  smile, 
Beaming  in  love  amid  surroundings  vile, 
Came,  morn  by  morn,  to  mitigate  and  bless; 
A  benediction  in  my  bitterness. 

Time  after  time,  when  the  approaching  night 
Had  banished  every  modicum  of  light, 
And  clothed  each  outline  with  her  sable  guise, 
I  watched  the  greenish  glow  of  reptile  eyes, 
Nor  dared  to  slumber,  till  exhaustion's  sleep 
Benumbed  my  senses  with  its  stupors  deep. 
Then,  conjured  by  the  witcheries  of  night, 
Came  pleasant  dreams  and  visions  of  delight, 
Those  iridescent  phantasies  of  air, 
Which  mock  the  troubled  breast  in  its  despair ; 
Then  waking,  the  delusive  phantoms  flown, 
A  prisoner  upon  a  floor  of  stone. 
My  fare  was  still  the  captive's  mouldy  crust, 
My  chains  still  reeked  with  clotted  gore  and  rust, 
The  rigid  shackles  still  retained  their  clutch, 
And  clammy  walls  repulsed  the  friendly  touch. 

Day  after  day,  besmeared  with  filth  and  slime, 
In  foul  monotony  I  passed  the  time, 
Battling  with  vermin  foes,  a  teeming  brood, 
Prolific  and  not  easily  withstood : 


The  Prisoner  45 

An  evil  pest,  ubiquitous  and  rife, 

In  the  fecundity  of  insect  life. 

In  agony  of  body  and  of  brain, 

Each  breath  a  stifling  gasp  and  twinge  of  pain, 

Cursing  my  fortune,  though  each  fevered  curse 

Redounding,  made  my  agony  the  worse; 

For  fits  of  anger  seldom  mollify, 

When  vacancy  reiterates  the  cry, 

Or  walls  of  cold,  unsympathetic  stone 

Respond  but  hollow  echoes  of  a  groan. 

Though  limbs  as  free  and  restless  as  the  wind 

Are  not  to  shackles  readily  resigned, 

Complaint,  with  oath  and  bitterness  replete, 

In  prisoner  is  doubly  indiscreet. 

The  imprecation,  born  of  righteous  wrath, 

Subtracts  no  obstacle  from  any  path. 


Bereft  of  star  or  luminary  bright, 

No  night  so  dark  as  artificial  night ; 

No  glittering  constellations  kindly  throw 

Their  twinkling  beacons  o'er  the  void  below ; 

No  satellite  with  pale  invasive  beam 

Breaks  through  the  darkness  awful  and  extreme ; 

No  comet,  through  the  vast  sidereal  waste, 

Pursues  its  orbit  with  unbridled  haste; 

No  silvery  moon,  through  the  dissembling  shroud, 

May  shine  or  burst  through  orifice  of  cloud 

In  mellow  radiations,  soft  and  swreet ; 

Darkness  most  dense,  oppressive  and  complete. 


46  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

No  friendly  voice  might  penetrate  the  gloom, 

Nor  break  the  silence  of  that  fetid  tomb, 

With  genial  converse,  which  in  some  degree 

Makes  men  forget  their  depth  of  misery. 

Silence,  most  tragic,  horrible,  profound, 

Except  the  sharp  and  intermittent  sound 

Of  rodent  feet,  and  noise  of  creeping  things, 

The  squeak  of  vampires  and  their  whirr  of  wings ; 

Or  cries  of  swift  pursuit,  or  of  despair, 

Bang  out  upon  the  pestilential  air, 

As  ever  and  anon  a  dying  squeak 

Told  of  the  strong  prevailing  o'er  the  weak ; 

For  might  obtains  along  the  selfsame  plan 

With  ruthless  vermin  and  enlightened  man. 

Yet  man  in  his  dominion  absolute, 

Removed  above  the  province  of  the  brute, 

From  social  claims  and  attributes  released, 

Has  little  to  distinguish  from  the  beast. 

With  all  associative  wants  denied, 

And  his  gregarious  longings  unsupplied, 

By  human  comradeship,  affection  springs 

Well  up  in  effluent  love  for  baser  things. 

For  'neath  the  polish  and  embellishments 

Of  cultivation  and  intelligence, 

There  lies  a  basic  bond  of  sympathy, 

For  man  and  beast  are  friends  in  misery. 

Yes, friends,  the  most  ill-favored  shape  whichsquirms 

In  reptile  folds,  repulsive  snakes  and  worms, 

Soon  lose  their  dread  repugnance,  one  and  all, 

To  solitary  man  in  prison  thrall. 


The  Prisoner  47 

Through  the  long  hours  of  physical  distress, 

In  my  extremity  of  loneliness, 

I  felt  companionship  in  this  abode, 

For  e'en  the  vicious  rat  and  sluggish  toad. 

Thrice  sixty  days  of  corporal  decay 
And  mental  anguish,  slowly  wore  away; 
Thrice  sixty  nights  of  filthy  durance  passed, 
Each  day  and  night  more  hopeless  than  the  last. 
My  limbs,  no  longer  brawny  and  alert, 
Were  famine-wasted,  loathsome  and  inert. 
With  shaggy  beard  and  matted  unkempt  hair, 
With  face  no  longer  rubicund  and  fair, 
Which  haggard  and  emaciated  shone, 
And  through  the  sallow  skin  disclosed  the  bone. 
Thus  languished  nature  in  enforced  decay, 
Till  hope's  last  beacon  light  had  burned  away. 

Though  never  exculpated  from  offence, 
Time  brought  conditional  deliverance; 
A  writ  of  amnesty,  the  Czar's  decree, 
Within  its  gracious  scope  included  me. 
Released  at  last  by  ukase  absolute, 
But  famished,  homeless,  sick  and  destitute. 
What  followed  would  be  tedious  to  recite, 
The  sequel,  but  the  incidents  of  flight. 
Alone,  an  outcast  from  my  native  hearth, 
An  aimless  wanderer  upon  the  earth, 
Blown  as  the  desert  shifts  a  grain  of  sand, 
Borne  by  each  wanton  gale,  from  land  to  land. 


48  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

A  keen  observer  of  the  play  of  life, 

Withal  a  nether  factor  in  its  strife. 

Watching  existence  as  a  game  of  chess, 

Where  love,  hate,  smile,  tear,  insult  and  caress 

Hold  us  by  turns  in  various  forms  of  check ; 

Some  sort  of  yoke  is  worn  by  every  neck. 

Kings,  queens  and  knights,  exalted  castles  see, 

Undone  by  pawns  and  powers  of  base  degree. 

Positions  gained  at  a  tremendous  cost, 

By  one  false  move  may  be  forever  lost ; 

Each  studied  movement,  each  strategic  course, 

Is  shaped  by  contact  with  opposing  force, 

And  moves  which  seem  fortuitous  and  blind 

Are  often  those  most  cunningly  designed. 

In  devious  ways  we  may  not  understand, 

Our  steps  are  ordered  by  an  Unseen  Hand. 

Proud  queens,  subservient  pawns,  with  varied  role, 

Are  vain  components  of  the  wondrous  whole ; 

Life's  pantomime,  in  figures  complicate; 

Men  are  but  puppets  on  the  wires  of  fate. 

My  native  land,  henceforth  no  longer  mine, 

My  footsteps,  seeking  an  adopted  shrine, 

Have  found  a  home,  within  the  mountain  West, 

Where  Truth  may  preach  her  gospel  unsuppressed." 


All  eyes  were  now  on  Russian  Pete, 
Who  quietly  resumed  his  seat. 


A  Sequel  of  the  Lost  Cause  49 

At  the  conclusion  of  his  tale 

The  wind  had  risen  to  a  gale, 

And  mourned  as  though  in  sympathy 

With  human  woe  and  misery. 

Or  as  the  winds,  for  some  offence 

To  man,  or  his  creations  done, 

Now  wailed  a  frenzied  penitence 

In  anguish-laden  orison. 

The  elements  petitioning 

The  pardon  of  their  stormy  king, 

E'en  as  the  supplicating  cries 

Might  from  the  damned  in  torment  rise, 

And  cleave  the  palpitating  air 

With  hopeless  accents  of  despair. 

As  Uncle  Jim  stirred  up  the  fire 
With  observation  taciturn, 
All  watched  the  crackling  hemlock  burn 
Till  some  one  called  for  Dad  McGuire. 

IV.    A  SEQUEL  OF  THE  LOST  CAUSE 

Now,  Dad  McGuire  was  old,  and  bent  of  form, 
Tanned  by  exposure  to  the  sun  and  storm ; 
Of  grizzled  beard  and  seam-indented  brow, 
The  furrows  traced  by  Time's  remorseless  plough; 
Hardy  and  gnarled  as  the  mountain  oak, 
Bent  by  the  hand  of  Time  but  still  unbroke; 
Bowed  by  the  weight  of  years  and  labors  done, 
A  man  whose  course  had  neared  the  setting  sun ; 


50  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

His  face  a  blending  of  the  calm  and  sad, 
Paternal-looking,  so  they  called  him  "Dad." 


This  man,  so  near  his  journey's  close, 

With  great  deliberation  rose, 

Coughed  once  or  twice  and  scratched  his  nose ; 

Then,  as  became  a  veteran, 

Surveyed  his  hearers  and  began; 

"Since  Uncle  Jim  and  Russian  Pete 

Declared  the  reasons  why  their  feet 

This  rugged  wilderness  have  trod, 

And  left  for  aye  their  native  sod, 

I,  too,  will  recapitulate 

That  chapter,  from  my  book  of  fate. 

Where  Rappahannock's  silver  stream 

Reflects  the  moon's  resplendent  beam, 

And  sheds  a  mellow  lustre  o'er 

The  trees  and  shrubs  that  fringe  the  shore; 

Where  Nature's  lavish  hand  bestows 

The  crystal  dews  and  generous  showers; 

Where  lily,  hollyhock  and  rose, 

And  many-tinted  herbs  and  flowers 

Combining,  form  a  floral  scene 

On  background  of  eternal  green ; 

Where  through  the  solemn  night  is  heard 

The  warbling  plaint  of  feathered  throats, 

As  whippoorwill  and  mockingbird 

Pour  forth  their  wealth  of  liquid  notes, 


"With  swift  and  spoliating  flow, 
Uprooting  many  a  noble  tree, 

To  strew  the  desert's  waste  below, 

With  scattered  drift-wood  and  debris." 


A  Sequel  of  the  Lost  Cause  51 

While  the  accompanying  breeze 

Sighs  through  the  underbrush  and  trees, 

And  rippling  waters  blend  their  tune, 

In  salutation  to  the  moon; 

Where  singing  insects,  bugs  and  bees 

Mingle  their  droning  harmonies, 

With  croakings  of  loquacious  frogs 

In  the  adjacent  swamps  and  bogs; 

Where  from  the  water,  air  and  ground, 

Rises  a  symphony  of  sound; 

Mid  nature's  fond  environment, 

My  boyhood's  happy  hours  were  spent. 

But  now,  my  narrative  begins: 

I  had  a  brother,  we  were  twins, 

Sunburnt  and  freckled,  light  of  heart, 

Resembling  each  other  so 

That  few  could  tell  the  two  apart. 

We  grew,  as  two  twin  pines  might  grow, 

Upon  the  isolated  edge 

Of  some  lone  precipice  or  ledge, 

That  overlooks  the  vale  below ; 

Remote  from  every  wooded  strip, 

With  but  each  other's  fellowship, 

In  solitary  station  placed, 

With  branches  locked  and  interlaced, 

As  sworn  to  cherish  and  defend 

Each  other,  to  the  bitter  end. 

The  course  of  uneventful  life 

Ran  smoothly  on,  unmarred  by  strife, 


52  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Till  childish  fancy  disappeared, 

As  manhood's  sterner  age  was  neared; 

Then  in  a  city's  bustling  mart, 

The  cords  of  fate  drew  us  apart, 

Through  paths  of  accident  and  chance, 

Environment  and  circumstance; 

Within  their  complicated  maze, 

We  reached  that  parting  of  the  ways, 

Where  sentiment  is  nipped  by  frost, 

Where  ties  of  consanguinity 

Disrupt,  and  often  disagree, 

Or,  through  indifference  are  lost. 

We  happened  that  eventful  spring, 
To  hold  a  family  gathering, 
To  reunite  each  severed  tie 
So  soon  to  be  dissolved  for  aye. 

As  famines,  with  their  blight  respond, 

When  some  vile  genius  waves  his  wand, 

And  leave  a  ghastly  aftermath 

Of  bleaching  bones  to  mark  their  path; 

Or  demon  hands,  in  foul  offence, 

Pour  out  the  vials  of  pestilence, 

To  reap,  with  desolating  breath, 

A  harvest  of  untimely  death; 

The  throes  of  internecine  war 

Now  rent  the  nation  to  its  core, 

And  smote,  with  decimating  hand 

The  best  and  bravest  of  the  land, 


A  Sequel  of  the  Lost  Cause  53 

Estranging,  never  to  amend, 

Father  from  son  and  friend  from  friend; 

Dissolving  many  sacred  cords 

Of  love  in  bitterest  enmity. 

Lips  once  replete  with  friendly  words 

Now  challenged  as  an  enemy; 

We,  who  had  never  quarrelled  before, 

Parted  in  wrath,  and  met  no  more. 

His  firm  convictions  led  him  where 
A  banner  floated  in  the  air, 
In  silken  corrugations  curled, 
The  admiration  of  a  world ; 
Beneath  its  constellated  stars, 
Its  azure  field  and  crimson  bars, 
Although  no  message  ever  came 
To  tell  his  fate,  or  spread  his  fame, 
I  know  that  'mid  the  shot  and  shell 
He  served  the  cause  he  fought  for,  well. 
For  aught  I  know,  his  manly  form 
Went  down  before  some  leaden  storm, 
And  lay  with  mangled  flesh  and  bone 
Among  the  numberless  unknown, 
Who  filled  the  trenches  where  they  died, 
Uncoffined,  unidentified. 

The  voice  of  duty  led  me  where 
The  strains  of  Dixie  filled  the  air, 
Where  curling  smoke  in  graceful  rings 
Rose  on  the  evening's  silent  wings, 


54  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

And  hovering  o'er  the  mist  and  damp, 

Betrayed  the  presence  of  the  camp. 

I  pass  the  story  of  the  war, — 

The  cause  we  lost,  but  struggled  for 

Through  four  long  years,  in  southern  fens, — 

To  wiser  tongues  and  abler  pens. 

Through  four  long  years  of  tragedy, 

I  fought,  bled,  marched  and  starved  with  Lee, 

Till  Appomattox's  final  day, 

I,  in  a  uniform  of  gray, 

Before  the  cannon's  yawning  mouth, 

Defended  my  beloved  South. 

The  struggle  ending,  in  complete, 
Although  most  honorable  defeat, 
Footsore  and  hungry,  broken,  sad, 
In  ragged  regimentals  clad, 
Towards  Rappahannock's  silver  flood, 
I  plodded  homeward  through  the  mud, 
To  find  a  desolated  home, 
The  final  page  in  war's  red  tome. 

That  day,  as  I  remember  well, 

The  splashing  rain  in  torrents  fell ; 

The  pregnant  clouds  discharged  their  debt 

Of  moist,  apologetic  tears, 

As  if  in  passionate  regret 

For  rain  withheld  in  famine  years, 

And  from  exuberance  of  grief 

In  drizzling  penance  found  relief; 


A  Sequel  of  the  Lost  Cause  55 

Or,  as  if  tears  from  unseen  eyes 

Were  wafted  downward  from  the  skies, 

In  tardy  expiation  for 

The  carnage  of  remorseless  war ; 

The  sorrow  of  the  elements 

For  human  woe  and  violence. 

The  roads  which  thread  the  country  lanes, 

Had  turned  to  sheets  of  liquid  mud, 

As  if  to  cover  up  the  stains 

Of  civil  war  and  human  blood. 


That  evening,  as  a  pall  of  cloud 

Enveloped  nature  as  a  shroud, 

Bedraggled  and  dispirited, 

My  footsteps  to  the  old  home  led ; 

Again  I  stood  before  the  door 

I  left  in  wrath,  four  years  before ; 

But  what  a  change !    The  vandal  torch 

Had  long  devoured  the  roof  and  porch ; 

The  gray  disintegrating  walls 

Still  swayed  and  tottered  in  the  air, 

Or  lay  in  heaps  within  its  halls, 

In  melancholy  ruin  there; 

The  towering  chimney,  black  and  tall, 

Stood,  as  if  mourning  o'er  its  fall ; 

And  through  the  dismal  mist  and  rain, 

The  windows,  void  of  sash  and  pane, 

Seemed  staring  at  the  gathering  night, 

In  wild  expression  of  affright. 


56  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

The  fields  my  infancy  had  known, 
With  briar  and  weed  were  overgrown ; 
The  sunlight,  heralding  the  morn, 
No  longer  smiled  on  waving  corn. 

I  wandered,  aimlessly  around, 
Yet  heard  not  one  familiar  sound, 
No  stamp  of  hoof  nor  flap  of  wing, 
No  low  of  cow,  nor  bleat  of  sheep, 
Nor  any  tame  domestic  thing; 
Silence,  most  horrible  and  deep. 
No  pony  whinnied  in  its  stall, 
Nor  neighed  in  answer  to  my  call ; 
No  purr  of  cat,  nor  bark  of  dog, 
Naught  but  the  croaking  of  the  frog ; 
No  voice  of  relative  or  kin, 
No  father  paused  and  stroked  his  chin, 
Then  rushed  with  recognizing  grasp 
To  hold  his  son  within  his  clasp ; 
No  mother,  with  her  silvered  hair, 
Rocked  in  the  same  old  rocking  chair. 

First  at  the  ruins,  then  the  ground, 
I  gazed  in  turn,  mechanically, 
Till,  startled  by  a  mournful  sound, 
A  piteous  and  plaintive  cry, 
I  turned,  and  peering  through  the  storm, 
Discerned  the  outlines  of  a  form, 
Bewailing  o'er  the  ruins  there 
.  In  accents  of  complete  despair. 


A  Sequel  of  the  Lost  Cause  57 

I  knew  her  voice,  and  felt  her  woe, 
She  was  my  nurse,  poor  Aunty  Chloe ! 
Between  her  sobs  disconsolate, 
This  freed,  but  ever  faithful  slave, 
Told  of  my  aged  parents'  fate, 
Then  led  me  to  the  double  grave. 

I,  who  through  four  long  tragic  years, 
Had  never  yielded  once  to  tears, 
Clasping  her  hand,  so  kind  and  true, 
Wept  with  the  rain,  and  she  wept  too. 

Ere  daybreak,  with  increasing  light, 
Evolved  from  disappearing  night 
The  morn,  in  radiant  splendor  dressed, 
I,  too,  had  started  for  the  West." 


Ere  the  conclusion  of  the  narrative, 
Through  every  crack  and  cranny  of  the  door 
The  snow  had  sifted  in,  as  through  a  sieve, 
And  piled  in  little  cones  upon  the  floor. 
Without,  the  raging  tempest  still  assailed ; 
Within,  the  fire  to  glowing  coals  had  failed. 
All  smoked,  and  with  their  eyes  on  Dad  McGuire, 
Waited  for  some  one  else  to  build  the  fire. 
Such  close  attention  had  his  tale  received, 
It  seemed  as  if  'twas  partially  believed; 
Few  of  the  tales  which  we  enjoy  the  most 
In  verity,  may  that  distinction  boast. 


58  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

The  dying  embers  shed  their  mellow  glow 

Upon  the  aged  face  of  Dad  McGuire, 

As  he  swept  out  the  little  piles  of  snow 

And  laid  a  hemlock  log  upon  the  fire. 

Then  followed  disconnected  colloquies 

And  witticisms  in  the  form  of  jest ; 

The  joke  is  always  where  the  miner  is, 

The  form  of  levity  he  loves  the  best, 

For  cutting  truths  have  thereby  been  conveyed, 

Where  delicacy  all  other  forms  forbade. 

As  some  fierce  gale  that  bows  the  gnarled  oak, 
Sinks  till  it  scarcely  sways  the  underbrush, 
The  laughter,  incident  to  jest  and  joke, 
Subsided  to  a  calm  and  tranquil  hush. 
All  husbanded  their  energy  and  strength 
And  smoked  in  silence  for  a  moment's  length. 

V.    THE  AVALANCHE 

Just  then  a  crashing  sound  was  heard, 

That  caused  each  ruddy  cheek  to  blanch, 

Though  no  one  moved  nor  spoke  a  word, 

All  listening  to  the  avalanche 

With  apprehensive  ears  intent, 

Knew  what  a  mountain  snowslide  meant. 

Nor  marvel  that  each  visage  paled, 

Nor  that  the  hardy  sinews  quailed; 

These  terrors  of  the  solitude 

The  mountain's  timbered  slopes  denude, 


The  Avalanche  59 

Sweeping  the  frozen  spruce  and  fir 

As  with  a  snowy  scimitar; 

Nor  can  the  stately  pines  prevent 

Its  irresistible  descent; 

A  foe  admitting  no  defence. 

A  moment  passed  in  dire  suspense, 

And  at  its  expiration  brief, 

Each  heaved  a  breath  of  deep  relief; 

The  snowslide,  terrible  and  vast, 

Had  precipice  and  chasm  leapt, 

And  down  the  rugged  mountains  swept, 

Missing  the  cabin  as  it  passed. 

The  cabin  clock  had  indicated  five 

When  due  composure  was  at  length  restored; 

As  evidence  that  all  were  still  alive, 

Queries  were  made  about  the  "festive  board," 

As  sailors  shipwrecked  on  some  barren  rock, 

After  the  first  excitement  of  the  shock, 

Mingle  their  words  of  gratitude  and  prayer 

With  speculations  on  the  bill  of  fare. 

No  depth  of  danger  man  is  called  to  face, 

No  exultation  nor  extreme  disgrace, 

No  victory  nor  depression  of  defeat 

Can  shake  recurrent  Hunger  from  her  seat. 

The  cabin  oracle  so  often  used, 

A  pack  of  playing  cards,  was  soon  produced. 

A  turn  at  whist  the  afternoon  before, 

Told  who  should  cut  the  wood  and  sweep  the  floor. 


60  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

As  one  of  the  disasters  of  defeat, 
Washing  the  dishes  fell  to  Russian  Pete. 
A  game  of  freeze-out,  played  with  equal  zeal, 
Decided  who  should  cook  the  evening  meal ; 
Conspiring  cards  electing  Uncle  Jim, 
The  culinary  task  devolved  on  him. 


Accordingly,  with  acquiescent  nod, 

Abiding  by  the  fortunes  of  the  game, 

This  patriarch,  so  venerable  and  odd, — 

Whose  skill  in  cooking  was  of  local  fame, 

Knocked  out  the  ashes  from  his  meerschaum  pipe 

And  laid  it  tenderly  upon  the  shelf, 

Took  a  preliminary  wash  and  wipe, 

And  squinting  in  the  mirror  at  himself, 

Like  most  of  those  possessed  of  little  hair, 

Brushed  what  he  still  had  left  with  greatest  care. 

Small  use  for  comb  or  brush  had  Uncle  Jim, 

His  capillary  wealth,  a  grayish  rim 

Or  hirsute  chaplet,  as  it  had  been  called 

By  other  miners  less  completely  bald, 

Fringing  his  head  an  inch  above  the  ears, 

Marked  off  his  shining  pate  in  hemispheres. 

His  flowing  beard,  of  venerable  air, 

Enjoyed  a  strict  monopoly  in  hair, 

As  if  the  raven  curls  that  once  adorned 

His  occiput,  that  habitation  scorned 

And  took,  as  an  expression  of  chagrin, 

A  change  of  venue  to  his  ample  chin. 


The  Avalanche  61 

When  Uncle  Jim  was  duly  washed  and  groomed, 

The  running  conversation  was  resumed, 

And  as  the  veteran  his  task  pursued, 

Mixing  the  biscuit  dough  with  judgment  good, 

All  smoked  and  talked,  excepting  Dad  McGuire, 

Who,  helping  Uncle  Jim,  stirred  up  the  fire, 

Raking  the  embers  in  a  little  pile, 

Then  warmed  the  old  Dutch  oven  up  a  while, 

And  after  greasing  with  a  bacon  rind, 

The  biscuit  dough  was  to  its  depths  consigned. 


Soon  from  within  the  oven,  partly  hid 
By  embers  piled  upon  the  cumbrous  lid, 
The  baking  powder  biscuits  nestling  there 
With  wholesome  exhalations  charged  the  air. 
A  pot  of  beans  suspended  by  a  wire 
Swung  like  a  pendulum  above  the  fire, 
And  answered  every  flame's  combustive  kiss 
W7ith  roundelay  of  bubble  and  of  hiss, 
While  in  the  esculent  commotion  swam 
The  residue  of  what  was  once  a  ham. 
Though  epicures,  who  yearn  for  fowl  and  fish, 
May  scorn  this  plain  and  inexpensive  dish, 
So  free  from  the  extravagance  of  waste, 
Yet  succulent  and  pleasant  to  the  taste, 
Of  all  the  varied  products  of  the  soil, 
The  bean  is  most  esteemed  by  those  who  toil. 
Removed,  in  place  less  prominent  and  hot, 
One  might  have  seen  the  old  black  coffee  pot, 


62  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

And  watched  the  puffs  of  aromatic  steam 

Kise  on  the  background  of  the  firelight's  gleam. 

A  pleasant  sibilation  filled  the  room, 

As  with  an  unctuous  savor  or  perfume 

The  bacon  sizzled  in  the  frying-pan, 

The  bane  and  terror  of  dyspeptic  man ; 

But  those  who  labor  for  their  daily  bread 

Of  sedentary  ills  have  little  dread. 

The  simple  yet  salubrious  repast 

Was  on  the  rustic  table  spread  at  last. 

No  cut-glass  flashed  and  sparkled  in  the  light, 

Nor  burnished  silver  service  met  the  sight. 

No  butter  dish,  nor  sugar  bowl  was  seen, 

The  grains  of  sugar,  white  and  saccharine, 

Imprisoned  in  a  baking  powder  can, 

Rose  in  a  wilderness  of  pot  and  pan. 

The  butter  firkin  stood  upon  a  shelf 

Where  every  one  could  reach  and  help  himself. 

The  nibbling  rodent  and  destructive  moth 

Found  naught  to  lure  them  in  the  shape  of  cloth. 

No  tablespread  of  costly  linen  lent 

Its  white  disguise  or  figured  ornament 

To  catch  the  bacon  or  the  coffee  stain. 

Nor  was  there  cup  or  plate  of  porcelain, 

For  empty  cans,  stripped  of  their  labels,  bare, 

And  pie  tins  held  the  same  positions  there. 

All  congregated  'round  the  simple  spread 
And  ate  the  beans  and  baking  powder  bread, 


''Arrayed  in  Nature's  pristine  dress 
This  was,  indeed,  a  wilderness.'' 


See  jvigf  L'9. 


The  Avalanche  63 

With  all  the  satisfaction  and  delight 

That  crown  the  hungry  miner's  appetite; 

Not  gluttony,  that  enemy  to  health, 

That  often  follows  in  the  trail  of  wealth, 

But  wholesome  relish,  which  the  laboring  poor 

Enjoy,  who  eat  their  fill,  but  eat  no  more. 

The  final  course  was  ushered  in  at  last, 

When  apple  sauce  around  the  board  was  passed ; 

As  Uncle  Jim  stretched  forth  his  hand  across 

The  table  to  the  dish  of  apple-sauce, 

And  on  his  ample  pie  tin  placed  some  more, 

A  hurried  knock  resounded  from  the  door, 

And  Steve  McCoy,  a  miner  in  the  camp, 

With  brow  from  snow  and  perspiration  damp, 

Rushed  in,  from  out  the  white  and  whirling  waste, 

In  the  excitement  incident  to  haste, 

And  waiving  further  ceremony  cried: — 

"Our  cabin  has  been  taken  by  a  slide !" 

Steve  as  a  snowy  Santa  Claus  appeared, 

Pulling  the  icicles  from  off  his  beard, 

Relating,  in  his  intervals  of  breath, 

His  tale  of  dire  disaster  and  of  death ; 

He,  and  his  partner  "Smithy,"  were  on  shift 

Within  the  tunnel  working  in  a  drift, 

Chasing  a  stringer  in  their  search  for  ore, 

Within  the  hill  a  thousand  feet  or  more. 

The  rock  was  hard  and  both  of  them  were  tired, 

The  holes  were  blasted  as  the  work  required ; 


64  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Then  to  their  consternation  and  surprise, 
Upon  emerging  from  the  tunnel's  mouth, 
No  hospitable  cabin  met  their  eyes 
Upon  the  hillside,  sloping  toward  the  south ; 
The  hut  of  logs  where  they  had  cooked  and  slept 
Had  been  from  human  eyes  forever  swept. 
Their  partners,  it  were  reason  to  presume, 
Were  suffocating  in  a  snowy  tomb. 

"Smithy"  had  gone  to  Uncle  Bobby  Green, 

Whose  cabin  lay  the  nearest  to  the  scene, 

To  summon  help,  and  get  the  boys  to  go 

To  probe  with  poles  and  shovels  in  the  snow, 

To  find  the  living,  or  if  life  had  sped, 

To  make  the  avalanche  yield  up  its  dead. 

Of  partners,  Steve  and  Smithy  had  but  two, 

"Daddy"  McLaughlin  and  young  Dick  McGrew, 

Uncle  and  nephew,  patriarch  and  youth, 

Both  men  of  strict  integrity  and  truth. 

Four  other  miners  on  another  lease 

Dwelt  with  the  boys  in  harmony  and  peace. 

Two  strangers,  who  arrived  the  night  before, 

Had  been  invited,  till  the  storm  was  o'er, 

To  share  their  hospitality.     Their  fate 

Had  raised  the  list  of  dead,  perhaps,  to  eight. 

Ere  Steve  had  panted  forth  his  final  word, 
The  boys  had  risen  up  with  one  accord; 
The  rescue  must  be  tried  at  any  cost, 
The  chance,  however  slight,  must  not  be  lost. 


The  Rescue  65 

Steve  as  a  runner  who  has  reached  his  goal, 

Leaned  half  exhausted  on  his  snowshoe  pole, 

The  while  his  sturdy  auditors  began 

To  don  their  caps  and  mittens,  to  a  man, 

Then  wrapping  mufflers  'round  their  ears  and  throats, 

Put  on  their  clumsy,  canvas  overcoats. 

Thanks  to  the  providence  of  Dad  McGuire, 

Who  always  kept  a  stock  of  baling  wire 

And  odds  and  ends  of  everything  around, 

Their  feet  were  quickly  and  securely  bound 

With  canvas  ore  sacks  or  with  gunny-sacks, 

A  thing  the  miner's  wardrobe  seldom  lacks. 

yi.    THE  RESCUE 

Forth  to  the  rescue  went  the  miners  bold, 
Regardless  of  the  tempest  wild  and  brisk, 
Regardless  of  the  driving  snow  and  cold, 
Regardless  of  the  hazard  and  the  risk ; 
Facing  with  stalwart  resolution  brave 
The  snowy  fate  of  those  they  strove  to  save. 

One  form  of  courage  nerves  the  soldier's  arm, 

Excitement  overcomes  the  wild  alarm 

Which  at  the  onset  e'en  the  bravest  feel, 

Though  self-possession  may  that  fear  conceal. 

The  unromantic  dangers  of  the  storm 

Require  another  and  a  sterner  form, 

For  no  emotion  nerves  the  craven  breast 

To  tempt  the  snowslide  on  the  mountain's  crest ; 


66  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

That  noblest  element  unnoticed  thrives 
Beneath  the  surface  in  unnumbered  lives; 
At  danger's  call  the  sympathetic  bond 
Leaps  to  the  surface,  as  the  waves  respond 
When  one  has  tossed  a  pebble  in  a  pond; 
For  man  has  ever  since  the  world  began 
Laid  down  his  life  to  save  his  fellow-man ; 
Heroes  are  they,  no  praise  commensurate, 
Who  do  their  duty  in  the  face  of  fate. 

Through  gloomy  forests,  intricate  and  dark, 
Which  skirt  the  confines  of  the  mountain  park, 
With  arduous  climb  and  hazardous  ascent 
Up  through  the  gulch  precipitous  and  wild 
To  where  the  avalanche  its  force  had  spent, 
In  silent  haste  the  rescue  party  filed. 

On  such  occasions  little  may  be  said, 

The  sternest  use  subdued  and  whispered  breath, 

For  silence  seems  contagious  from  the  dead, 

A  vague,  unconscious  reverence  for  death. 

Facing  the  inconvenience  of  the  blast, 

Which  whirled  the  drifting  snowflakes  as  it  passed, 

The  party  shovelled ;  and  with  one  accord 

Abstained  from  converse,  no  one  spoke  a  word 

Till  hours  of  strenuous  search  disclosed  to  sight 

Six  corpses  from  their  sepulchre  of  white. 

The  other  two,  who  by  some  wondrous  means, 

Escaped  with  but  some  trifling  cuts  and  sprains, 

Were  in  the  meantime  by  their  fellows  found, 


The  Rescue  67 

Dazed  and  exhausted  in  the  gulch  below, 
For  storm-bewildered  men  will  grope  around 
Describing  circles  in  the  blinding  snow, 
Until  they  sink,  their  vital  forces  spent, 
And  crystal  snowflakes  weave  their  cerement. 

Six  pairs  of  skies,*  each  improvised  a  sled, 
On  which  were  placed  the  stark  and  staring  dead ; 
As  flickering  lanterns  flashed  a  ghostly  glow 
Upon  them  in  their  winding-sheets  of  snow, 
The  sad  procession  now  retraced  its  course 
Back  through  the  dismal  forest,  while  the  blast 
Wailed  forth  a  requiem  in  accents  hoarse, 
Which  shuddering  pines  re-echoed  as  it  passed. 

With  sorely  overtaxed  and  waning  strength, 

As  some  spent  swimmer  struggling  to  the  shore, 

The  weary  party  found  its  way  at  length, 

Back  through  the  forest  to  the  cabin's  door. 

As  Uncle  Jim,  whose  life  was  ever  spent 

In  ministering  to  others,  had  been  sent 

Ahead,  the  dying  coals  had  been  renewed 

With  fresh  supplies  of  pine  and  aspen  wood, 

And  blazed  a  cheery  invitation  forth 

To  those  who  sought  the  comfort  of  the  hearth. 

The  two  survivors  were  the  strangers  who 
Had  just  arrived  the  afternoon  before; 
Their  names  nor  antecedents  no  one  knew, 
But  western  miners  do  not  close  the  door 

*  Norwegian  snowshoes. 


68  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

On  weary  travellers,  whosoe'er  they  be, 

No  matter  what  their  race  or  pedigree; 

The  one  credential  needed  in  the  west 

Is — human  being,  storm-bound  and  distressed. 

The  rescued  miners,  much  benumbed  and  chilled, 

To  show  some  signs  of  conscious  life  began; 

So  Dad  McGuire,  in  therapeutics  skilled 

To  cure  the  maladies  of  beast  or  man, 

Pursuant  of  his  self-appointed  task, 

From  out  some  secret  depths  produced  a  flask, 

Which  to  the  rescued  miners  he  applied 

As  guaranteed  to  warm  them  up  inside. 

By  way  of  chance  digression,  should  you  ask 

The  nature  of  the  liquid  in  the  flask, 

Which,  evidently,  the  boys  had  used  before, 

We  must  admit,  the  empty  bottle  bore, 

Like  most  of  bottles  used  in  mining  camps, 

The  revenue  collector's  excise  stamps. 


The  senior  of  the  rescued  men  appeared 

In  age  to  crowd  the  three-score  years  and  ten; 

Of  stalwart  form,  with  whitened  hair  and  beard, 

The  peer  of  multitudes  of  younger  men, 

In  matters  appertaining  to  physique ; 

He  first  recovered  and  essayed  to  speak. 

As  Dad  McGuire  and  kind  old  Uncle  Jim 

Were  ministering  as  best  they  could  to  him, 

In  kindly  interest  they  inquired  his  name, 

"John  T.  McGuire,"  the  labored  answer  came. 


The  Rescue  69 

As  Dad  McGuire  leaned  over  him  to  hear, 
His  gaze  descried  a  mole  behind  his  ear, 
Then  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise, 
As  one  who  scarcely  can  believe  his  eyes, 
He  turned  the  stranger  over  on  his  back, 
Found  two  more  moles, — and   cried — "My  brother 
Jack !" 


Erratic  as  the  vacillating  wind, 

Are  the  mysterious  wanderings  of  the  mind. 

When  reason  lays  her  golden  veil  aside, 

What  vagaries  and  aberrations  glide 

Through  the  disordered  precincts  of  the  brain ! 

What  phantoms  rise  and  disappear  again ! 

What  curious  blendings  of  reality 

And  fact,  with  wildest  flights  of  phantasy! 

The  flickerings  of  reason's  feeble  light 

And  relaxation  into  mental  night, 

Seem  as  a  beacon  on  some  rock-bound  coast, 

Which  flutters,  wanes  and  disappears  almost, 

Then  with  a  flash  illuminates  the  shore, 

Gleams  for  a  moment  and  is  seen  no  more ; 

Or  on  some  starless  midnight,  when  the  storm 

Dissolves  in  chaos  each  familiar  form, 

And  robes  the  landscape  in  Cimmerian  pall, 

The  lightnings  play, — then  darkness  covers  all. 

Unlocked  by  fever  and  delirium, 

The  cautious  tongue  becomes  no  longer  dumb, 


70  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

And  with  the  nervous  tension  overwrought, 

Oft  gives  expression  to  the  secret  thought. 

'Twas  thus  the  junior  of  the  rescued  men, 

A  modern  Hercules,  both  fair  and  young, 

With  accent  truly  cosmopolitan, 

Raved  both  in  English  and  some  unknown  tongue. 

His  accents  wild  and  unintelligible, 

Devoid  of  meaning,  on  his  hearers  fell, 

With  the  exception  of  the  practised  ear 

Of  Russian  Pete,  who  stood  beside  him  there, 

And  seemed  from  his  expression  to  detect 

Some  most  familiar  tongue  or  dialect. 

When  reason,  with  a  penetrating  gleam, 
Burst  through  the  canopy  of  mental  gloom, 
As  one  awakening  from  a  hideous  dream, 
He  started  up  and  stared  about  the  room, 
Until  he  chanced  to  catch  the  kindly  eyes 
Of  Russian  Pete,  which  kindled  with  surprise. 
A  look  of  mutual  recognition  passed 
Between  the  men,  so  strangely  joined  at  last. 
All  that  the  congregated  miners  heard 
Was  one,  presumably  a  Russian  word, 
And  Russian  Pete,  with  joy-illumined  face, 
Held  his  lost  brother  in  his  kind  embrace. 


Dazed  by  exhaustion,  comatose  and  deep, 
The  two  survivors,  while  the  tempest  roared, 


"We  grew  as  two  twin  pines  might  grow, 

Upon  the  isolated  edge, 
Of  some  lone  precipice  or  ledge." 

See  page  57. 


The  Rescue  71 

Were  through  the  gentle  ministry  of  sleep 
To  normal  strength  unconsciously  restored. 

'Tis  human  nature  to  review  again 

The  stirring  incidents  of  joy  or  pain ; 

So  on  the  eve  of  the  succeeding  day, 

When  four-and-twenty  hours  had  passed  away, 

The  party  grouped  around  the  blazing  light 

Which  from  the  fireplace  streamed  into  the  night, 

And  in  its  glow,  so  comfortable  and  warm, 

Recounted  the  disasters  of  the  storm. 

Like  some  informal  gathering,  at  first 

All  spoke  at  once,  as  with  a  common  burst ; 

Then  as  the  intermittent  tempest  wailed, 

The  talk  subsided  and  a  calm  prevailed. 

All  watched  the  pitch  ooze  from  the  knots  and  burn, 

Or  smoked  their  pipes  in  silent  unconcern. 

Some  moments  passed,  when  Uncle  Jim  arose, 
Nudged    Dad    McGuire,    who    seemed    inclined    to 

doze, 

And  as  he  started  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes 
Addressed  him  and  the  Russian  in  this  wise : 
"Two  days  ago  the  three  of  us  confessed 
The  reasons,  that  impelled  us  to  come  West; 
Now  if  it  please  your  brethren  to  relate 
The  strange  caprice  of  fortune  or  of  fate, 
Which  led  them  hither, — after  all  these  years, 
The  boys  will  listen  with  attentive  ears." 


72  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

VII.     THE  BLIGHT  OF  WAR 

All  eyes  now  sought  the  brother  of  McGuire, 
Who  sat  apart,  some  distance  from  the  fire 
Smoking  in  silence,  while  the  flickering  light 
Mingled  its  crimson  with  his  locks  of  white; 
He,  with  his  flowing,  patriarchal  beard, 
A  sage,  from  some  forgotten  age,  appeared, 
Or  wrinkled  seer  from  some  enchanted  clime, 
Whose  eye  could  pierce  the  veil  of  future  time. 
There  in  the  ever  thickening  haze  of  smoke, 
He,  being  three  times  importuned, — awoke. 

As  from  his  corncob  pipe  and  nostrils  broke 
The  spiral  wreaths  of  blue  tobacco  smoke, 
Which  formed  a  smoky  halo,  as  they  spread 
A  foot  above  his  venerable  head, 
Resembling  halos  which  the  artist  paints 
O'er  angel  heads,  or  mediaeval  saints, 
This  man  of  years,  so  calm  and  circumspect, 
Stroked  his  long  beard,  yawned  twice  and  stood 
erect. 


Like  to  a  wizard,  or  magician  old, 

With  some  mysterious  secret  to  unfold, 

This  man,  whose  bearing  would  command  respect, 

Stepped  forth  and  eyed  his  listeners  direct; 

Then  waiving  preludes  or  apologies, 

Addressed  his  auditors  in  terms  like  these : 


The  Blight  of  War  73 

"These  lips,  which  now  their  secret  shall  reveal, 

For  more  than  forty  years  have  worn  a  seal. 

For  years  as  hunter,  pioneer  and  scout, 

I  roamed  the  western  solitudes  about, 

Not  caring  whether  fortune  smiled  or  not, 

If  memory's  painful  twinges  were  forgot. 

I  sought,  as  many  other  men  have  done, 

Within  the  wilderness, — oblivion. 

Work  is  the  only  sure  iconoclast 

For  the  unpleasant  memories  of  the  past ; 

So  as  a  placer  miner,  prospector, 

And  half  a  dozen  avocations  more, 

Within  the  city,  and  the  solitude, 

The  star-eyed  Goddess  of  Success  I  wooed. 

Twice  was  I  numbered  with  the  men  of  wealth, 

Twice  lost  I  all,  including  strength  and  health. 

For  wealth,  when  fortune's  fickle  wheel  revolves 

Adversely,  into  empty  air  dissolves. 

Till  fate  so  strangely  led  my  footsteps  here, 

Mine  was,  indeed,  a  versatile  career. 

Yet  none  my  antecedents  ever  guessed, 

Nor  learned  from  me  the  cause  that  led  me  west. 


This  hair  and  beard  which  envy  not  to-night 
The  drifting  snowbanks  their  unbroken  white, 
Methinks,  as  memory  scans  the  backward  track, 
Vied  with  the  raven's  glossy  coat  of  black, 
When  I,  with  some  adventurous  emigrants, 
First  crossed  the  plain's  monotonous  expanse, 


74  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

To  leave  my  former  history  behind. 
But  who  can  regulate  his  peace  of  mind, 
Or  drop  the  morbid  burdens  of  the  breast 
By  simply  going  east  or  coming  west? 

'Way  down  upon  the  Rappahannock's  shore, 
Enshrined  in  memory,  though  seen  no  more, 
There  lies  an  old  plantation.    There  I  drew 
My  infant  breath,  and  into  manhood  grew. 
Its  fields  are  overgrown  with  willows  now, 
For  more  than  forty  years  unturned  by  plough, 
While  war's  red  desolation  razed  to  earth 
The  old  stone  manor-house  that  claimed  my  birth. 

Ah,  yes!    'Tis  forty  years  ago,  or  more, 
Since,  standing  near  the  old  paternal  door, 
One  pleasant  morning  in  the  early  spring, 
With  some  few  friends  and  kinfolks  visiting, 
Two  mounted  neighbors  stopped  in  passing  by, 
And  reining  up  their  horses  hurriedly 
Told  us  the  news,  which  like  a  cannon  ball 
Sped  through  the  land,  announcing  Sumter's  fall. 
The  animus  with  which  their  comments  fell, 
I  heard  months  later  in  the  rebel  yell. 

In  civil  war  or  fratricide  is  found 
No  place  for  such  as  seek  a  middle  ground. 
Though  lines  of  demarcation  intervene, 
No  peaceful  neutral  zone  may  lie  between. 
'Tis  not  an  easy  thing  to  breast  the  tide 
Of  public  sentiment,  and  to  decide 


The  Blight  of  War  75 

In  opposition,  though  the  cause  be  right, 
When  crossing  public  sentiment  means  fight. 
'Tis  easier  to  let  the  moving  throng 
Without  resistance  carry  you  along. 
When  he  who  hesitates,  or  turns  around, 
May  in  the  grist  of  public  wrath  be  ground. 
But  men  there  are  you  cannot  drive  in  flocks ; 
They  dash  like  breakers,  or  resist  like  rocks. 

Within  my  breast  I  fought  my  sternest  fight, 

I  could  not  view  the  southern  cause  as  right, 

And  yet  I  loved  the  people  of  the  south ; 

Debating  thus  I  opened  not  my  mouth. 

Both  in  my  waking  hours  and  in  my  dreams, 

I  heard  the  arguments  of  two  extremes. 

My  conscience  said:   'A  uniform  of  blue 

Awaits  your  coming,  wear  it  and  be  true.' 

My  interests  argued :    'Though  the  cause  be  wrong, 

Your  people  have  espoused  it  right  along. 

Your  worthy  family  has  for  many  years 

Seen  sorrow  only  in  the  white  man's  tears. 

Desertion  means  to  wear  the  traitor's  brands, 

And  face  your  friends  with  muskets  in  their  hands, 

To  slay  them  with  the  bayonet  and  ball, 

Or  by,  perhaps,  your  brother's  hand  to  fall.' 

I  heard  the  clarion  accents  of  the  fife 
Fan  into  flames  the  dormant  coals  of  strife. 
With  blast  prophetic  and  reverberant  swell, 
I  heard  the  bugle's  echoing  voice  foretell 


76  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

The  coming  conflict,  while  the  brazen  notes 

Were  answered  by  the  cheers  from  many  throats. 

I  heard  the  measured  rattle  of  the  drum, 

Proclaiming  that  the  day  of  wrath  had  come. 

I  heard  harangues,  incendiary  and  loud, 

Meet  with  the  approbation  of  the  crowd. 

I  saw  the  faltering  and  irresolute, 

Greeted  with  jeer  and  deprecating  hoot. 

I  saw  the  threatening  clouds  of  war  increase, 

Yet  prayed  for  peace,  where  there  could  be  no  peace. 

The  winds  of  slavery  their  seed  had  sown ; 

That  seed  to  rank  maturity  had  grown ; 

The  cup  was  full,  and  now  from  branch  and  root, 

The  whirlwind  came  to  strip  its  lawful  fruit. 

I  saw  my  friends  and  neighbors  march  away 

With  martial  tread,  in  uniforms  of  gray. 

I  saw  them  raise  their  caps  in  passing  by 

And  fair  hands  wave  their  kerchiefs  in  reply. 

Then  I,  who  had  in  military  schools 

Received  some  insight  into  army  rules, 

And,  being  of  a  martial  turn  of  mind, 

Was  offered  a  commission,  and, — declined. 

My  declination  was  a  shock  to  all, 

'Coward !'  said  they,  'to  shun  your  country's  call,— 

Then  stay  at  home,  from  wounds  and  scars  exempt, 

But  pay  the  price, — your  former  friends'  contempt.' 

That  action  was,  for  me,  the  Rubicon, 
Which  crossed,  I  had  no  choice  but  follow  on. 


The  Blight  of  War  ,  77 

But  what  a  change!    The  penalty  was  high, 

My  childhood's  friends  now  passed  me  coldly  by. 

I,  who  had  been  a  social  favorite, 

Received  no  salutation  when  we  met. 

Fair  ones,  who  used  to  smile,  now  looked  askance, 

Or  eyed  me  with  a  cold  indifference. 

My  action  seemed  base  cowardice  in  their  eyes, 

They  knowing  not  my  secret  sympathies. 

Though  of  a  family  rich  and  widely  known, 

I  stood  in  the  community,  alone, 

Like  a  pariah  none  would  recognize, 

Inaction  was  enough  to  ostracize. 

I  seemed  to  see,  like  Hagar's  fated  son, 

Against  me  raised  the  hand  of  every  one. 

The  time  had  come  when  I  must  make  my  choice, 
Defend  one  side  with  musket  and  with  voice ; 
Then  I,  to  conscience  and  convictions  true, 
Seemed  an  apostate, — for  I  chose  the  blue. 

There  are  inscriptions  on  the  scrolls  of  fate 

Which  seem  too  bitter  even  to  relate. 

I  waive  the  details, — better  to  conceal 

The  secret  skeletons,  than  to  reveal. 

I  shall  not  tell  you  how  my  brother  stormed, 

When  he  of  my  intentions  was  informed. 

I  pass  the  story,  how  my  ringing  ears 

Wrere  filled  with  threats,  entreaties  and  with  sneers. 

And  how  with  tear-stained  face  the  maiden  came, 

Who  was  to  be  my  bride  and  bear  my  name; 


78  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

How  she  appealed  to  sentiment  and  pride, 
Plead,  supplicated, — then  forsook  my  side; 
And  how  one  evening,  in  an  angry  burst, 
My  sire  pronounced  his  favorite  son  accurst ; 
And  how  a  mother,  clinging  to  her  child, 
Saw  son  and  father  still  unreconciled ; 
And  how  that  father,  pointing  to  the  door, 
Forbade  that  son  to  cross  the  threshold  more ; 
'Go,  go !'  said  he,  'but  never  more  return ! 
Go,  slay  your  neighbors,  pillage,  sack  and  burn ! 
But  never  while  the  golden  sun  doth  shine, 
Be  welcomed  home  as  son  and  heir  of  mine.' 
I  state  not  what  in  anger  I  replied, 
For  anger  in  my  breast  has  long  since  died. 
Kenounced,  despised  and  disinherited, 
I  trod  the  path  of  duty  where  it  led, 
And  ten  days  later,  in  the  rain  and  damp, 
Stood  as  a  sentry  near  a  Union  camp. 


Fain  from  my  recollections  would  I  blot 
These  images,  which  time  erases  not, 
And  leave  to  history's  undying  page, 
The  recitation  of  those  acts  of  rage. 
Incarnadined  with  human  blood  appears 
The  record  of  the  four  succeeding  years. 
Black  with  the  ruins  of  the  vandal  flame, 
A  carnival  of  misery  and  shame. 
I  must  abridge,  and  if  my  hearers  please, 
Confine  myself  to  generalities. 


The  Blight  of  War  79 

From  first  Manassas  to  the  Wilderness, 

A  period  of  some  four  years, — more  or  less, 

But  anyway,  till  long  in  sixty-four, 

A  musket  or  a  shoulder-strap  I  bore. 

Though  years  have  passed,  I  have  remembrance  yet 

Of  musketry  and  glistening  bayonet. 

As  retrospective  moods  attune  the  ear 

To  memory's  voice,  again  I  seem  to  hear 

The  cannon's  deep  and  minatory  roar, 

Like  breakers  dashing  on  a  rock-bound  shore. 

The  bursting  bomb  and  fulminating  shell, 

Again  their  stories  of  destruction  tell. 


Again  to-night,  with  memory's  eye  I  view 
The  sanguinary  scenes  of  sixty-two, 
The  march  of  infantry,  the  reckless  dash 
Of  cavalry,  with  onslaught  fierce  and  rash ; 
I  see  their  sabres,  glittering  and  bare, 
Flash  from  their  scabbards  in  the  smoky  air; 
I  hear  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs, 
And  see  the  smoke  expand  in  greyish  puffs; 
As  rifles  flash  and  speed  the  deadly  ball, 
I  see  the  riders  from  their  horses  fall ; 
Yet  forward  moves  the  furious  attack, 
The  opposing  column  wavers  and  falls  back; 
I  see  the  impact,  combat  hand  to  hand, 
Horses  and  riders  writhing  on  the  sand ; 
I  see  the  steeds  with  perspiration  wet, 
Sink  on  the  well-directed  bayonet ; 


80  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

I  see  them,  wounded  by  the  fatal  lunge, 
Become  unmanageable  and  madly  plunge ; 
Foaming  and  snorting  with  the  sudden  pain, 
They  trample  on  the  wounded  and  the  slain ; 
I  see  their  riders  in  the  stirrups  stand 
And  grasp  their  pistols  with  the  bridle  hand ; 
I  see  the  pistols  flash  and  sabres  thrust, 
A  scene  of  wild  confusion,  smoke  and  dust; 
I  hear  the  bugle  sounding  a  retreat, 
They  now  retire,  their  victory  complete ; 
But  mark  the  price  paid  for  their  brief  success ; 
Horses  with  blood-stained  saddles, — riderless. 


I  see  an  army  bivouac  on  the  field, 

To  nature's  obdurate  demands  they  yield, 

And  on  the  ground,  from  sheer  exhaustion  spent, 

They  lie  without  protecting  roof  or  tent. 

So  silently  their  prostrate  forms  are  spread, 

One  may  not  tell  the  sleeping  from  the  dead. 

I  see,  before  the  campfire's  fitful  gleam, 

The  sentry  pace,  as  in  a  waking  dream, 

Yet  manfully  subduing  the  fatigue 

Of  battle,  and  the  march  of  many  a  league, 

For  no  excitement  or  emotion  serves 

To  buoy  his  spirits  or  sustain  his  nerves. 

Weak  from  the  loss  of  their  accustomed  rest, 

With  heavy  eyes  and  aching  bones  distressed, 

The  while  their  weary  comrades  soundly  sleep, 

The  sentinels  their  lonely  vigils  keep, 


The  Blight  of  War  81 

As  from  the  glittering  expanse  of  skies, 

The  stars  look  down  with  cold,  impassive  eyes. 


I  see  brigades,  magnificent  and  large, 

With  bristling  bayonets  prepare  to  charge ; 

I  see  their  banners  in  the  distance  gleam, 

Reflecting  back  the  sun's  resplendent  beam ; 

Within  the  shelter  of  the  rifle  pits, 

Another  army  with  composure  sits, 

While  ever  and  anon  a  rifle's  crack 

Seems  to  invite  the  spirited  attack. 

From  a  commanding,  wooded  eminence, 

By  nature  calculated  for  defence, 

Upon  the  advancing  regiments  I  see 

The  murderous  belching  of  artillery; 

I  see  their  proud  and  militant  array, 

Before  the  deadly  grapeshot  melt  away; 

Before  the  rifle's  supplementing  breath, 

Whole  columns  sink  in  ghastly  heaps  of  death; 

I  see  them  close  their  gaps  and  press  ahead, 

But  only  to  augment  the  list  of  dead ; 

I  see  them,  stretched  upon  the  burning  sands, 

Clutching  the  air  with  lacerated  hands; 

From  underneath  the  mutilated  heap, 

The  wounded,  with  great  difficulty,  creep ; 

Dragging  a  helpless  arm,  or  shattered  limb, 

With  reeling  brain  and  sight  confused  and  dim, 

They  grope,  they  crawl,  or  limp  with  painful  tread; 

Their  uniforms  no  longer  blue,  but  red; 


82  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

And  pinioned  underneath  the  ghastly  pile, 
I  hear  them  struggle  for  release  the  while; 
But  fainter,  ever  fainter  grow  their  cries, 
Fainter,  and  fainter  still,  their  groans  arise ; 
Weaker  and  weaker  are  their  throes,  until 
With  one  last  quivering  throb,  they  too,  are  still. 

I  see  the  vultures,  as  they  scent  afar 
Their  portion  in  the  reeking  spoils  of  war; 
Far  in  the  distance  scattering  specks  appear, 
Which  multiply  in  size  as  they  draw  near, 
Until  they  balance  with  their  pinions  spread, 
Or  circle  'round  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

This  is  the  realistic  side  of  war, 
Which  most  men  overlook  and  all  abhor, 
Which  differs  from  the  sentiments  conveyed 
By  spotless  uniforms  on  dress  parade. 

War  is  a  crucible  that  tries  men's  souls, 
A  drama,  stern  in  all  its  various  r61es ; 
Though  saturated  with  all  forms  of  crime, 
'Tis  celebrated  in  heroic  rhyme; 
Though  opposite  to  every  humane  thought, 
With  murder,  pillage  and  destruction  fraught, 
In  literature,  in  history  and  art, 
It  forms  the  theme,  or  plays  a  leading  part ; 
Though  at  the  best,  deplorable  and  bad, 
'Tis  yet  with  sentiment  and  romance  clad ; 
Thus  are  the  gory  deeds  of  sword  and  fire, 
Commemorated  by  the  bardic  lyre. 


The  Blight  of  War  83 

Its  eras,  though  with  tragedy  replete, 

Form  stepping-stones  whereon  ambitious  feet 

May  mount  to  prominence,  perhaps  to  fame, 

And  write  in  crimson  an  illustrious  name. 

'Tis  said  that  heroes  are  the  fruits  of  war, 

No  matter  what  the  struggle  may  be  for, 

As  men  will  fight  to  make,  or  unmake  laws, 

Will  fight  for,  or  against  the  worthiest  cause. 

They  must  have  heroes,  though  to  make  them  drains 

The  life-blood  from  the  nation's  noblest  veins. 

And  though  no  vocal  adulations  rise, 

Their  heroes  many  men  apotheosize. 

Man  is  so  strangely  constituted,  he 

Must  hero-worshipper,  or  hero  be, — 

So  give  him  heroes,  let  the  armies  bleed, 

And  he  will  worship  them  with  word  and  deed ; 

Though  down  within  their  breasts  most  men  prefer 

To  be  the  hero,  than  the  worshipper. 

To  gain  the  plaudits  of  the  multitude, 
The  warrior,  with  ambitious  zeal  imbued, 
Climbs  upward,  and  accomplishing  his  ends 
To  take  his  share  of  worship  condescends, 
Forgetting  that  his  honors  are  bedewed 
With  human  tears  and  based  on  human  blood. 

Some  streaks,  in  military  pomp,  we  see, 
That  savor  much  of  pride  and  vanity, 
As  thirst  for  notoriety  and  fame 
Has  often  fanned  the  patriotic  flame. 


84  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Though  one  might  think  that  men  would  be  content 
To  pluck  one  star  from  glory's  firmament, 
Yet,  when  they  mount  the  ladder  a  few  rounds, 
Their  envy  and  ambition  know  no  bounds. 
To  wear  the  epaulette  and  strut  with  pride, 
Makes  men  forget  that  war  is  homicide. 

Some  call  it  fate,  some  call  it  destiny, 
Some  call  it  accident ;  what'er  it  be, 
It  seems  that  some  have  been  created  for 
The  honors,  some,  the  sacrifice  of  war. 

When  I  enlisted  as  a  raw  recruit, 
Promotion  was  no  object  of  pursuit, 
But  liking  honor  more  than  sacrifice, 
On  shoulder-straps  I  soon  cast  envious  eyes. 
For  one  rash  act, — 'twas  counted  bravery, 
Good  fortune  made  a  corporal  of  me. 
Soon,  as  if  favored  by  some  lucky  charm, 
I  wore  a  sergeant's  stripes  upon  my  arm. 
Twice  was  I  wounded,  twice  resumed  the  field 
Before  my  wounds  had  been  completely  healed. 
I  carry  yet,  and  shall  until  I  die, 
A  musket  ball,  encysted  in  my  thigh. 
Twice  was  I  captured,  twice  as  prisoner 
Drank  I  the  dregs  from  out  the  cup  of  war. 
As  if  some  guardian  star  my  course  arranged, 
Once  I  escaped,  and  once  was  I  exchanged. 
Then,  as  lieutenant,  rose  I  from  the  ranks, 
Received  a  medal  and  a  vote  of  thanks. 


The  Blight  of  War  85 

The  ladder  of  promotion,  round  by  round, 

I  soon  ascended  and  henceforth  was  found 

Among  the  few  selected  favorites 

Whom  fortune  decks  with  stars  and  epaulettes. 

Though  liking  not  the  role  of  matador, 

Within  the  ruthless  theatre  of  war, 

From  private  soldier  every  part  I  played, 

Until  my  sword  directed  a  brigade. 

I  wore,  the  night  before  I  started  west, 

Four  medal  decorations  on  my  breast. 

The  war  progressed,  for  time  rolls  on  the  same 
In  peace  or  war,  and  sixty-three  became 
A  chapter  in  the  annals  of  the  past. 
When  sixty-four  was  ushered  in  at  last, 
To  write  in  characters  of  blood  and  fire 
Its  page  of  human  immolation,  dire, 
The  waiting  army  lay  encamped,  before 
The  Rapidan's  inhospitable  shore. 
The  first  few  weeks,  devoid  of  incident, 
Were  in  the  army's  winter  quarters  spent, 
Until  the  winter,  on  his  snowy  wing, 
Retired  before  the  genial  breath  of  spring. 
In  speculation  on  the  moves  to  come, 
The  tongue  of  prophecy  remained  not  dumb, 
But  showered  prognostications  of  defeat, 
Succeeded  by  the  usual  retreat, 
When  rumors  of  offensive  action  planned 
As  spring  approached,  were  spread  through  each 
command. 


86  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Until  the  troops  were  mobilized  and  massed, 
Until  the  final  orders  had  been  passed, 
The  veterans,  who  had  remembrance  still, 
Recounted  Fredericksburg  and  Chancellorsville. 

But  soon  the  dreadful  Wilderness  campaign, 
With  its  long  lists  of  wounded  and  of  slain, 
Vied  with  the  carnage  of  the  year  before, 
If  it  be  possible  to  measure  gore. 
The  tactics  had  been  changed,  for  no  retreat 
Was  ordered,  as  the  sequel  of  defeat; 
Instead  of  faltering  or  turning  back, 
There  came  another  furious  attack, 
Another  movement  with  invasive  tread, 
And,  Spottsylvania  claimed  its  heaps  of  dead. 
Defeated,  but  uncrushed  and  undismayed, 
The  weakened  corps,  including  my  brigade, 
With  sadly  thinned  and  decimated  ranks, 
Was  hurled  once  more  against  the  rebel  flanks. 
There  in  a  hurricane  of  shot  and  shell, 
One-half  of  its  surviving  numbers  fell ; 
'Twas  thus  Cold  Harbor's  quarry  made  complete 
The  trio  of  victorious  defeat. 

Three  Southern  victories,  yet  like  a  knell 
Upon  the  Southern  ear  these  triumphs  fell; 
For  those  who  perished  in  that  dismal  waste, 
Had  fallen  and  could  never  be  replaced. 
Though  stubbornly  contested  inch  by  inch, 
The  lines  were  tightened  like  a  horse's  cinch. 


The  Blight  of  War  87 

We  watched  the  Southern  forces  day  by  day, 
From  natural  abrasion,  wear  away. 


One  evening  as  the  disappearing  light, 
Unveiled  the  beauties  of  a  cloudless  night, 
With  much  diminished  numbers,  my  brigade 
Its  camp  beside  the  Kappahannock  made, 
Some  five  miles  distant  from  the  spot  of  earth 
Associated  with  my  humble  birth. 

Next  morning,  ere  the  twinkling  stars  had  set, 

While  officers  and  men  were  sleeping  yet, 

A  courier  rode  up  to  my  command, 

And  placed  a  cipher  message  in  my  hand ; 

Then  spurring  well  his  horse  of  dapple  grey, 

With  parting  salutation  rode  away. 

This  was  the  import  of  that  message  stern : 

'Lay  waste  the  district.    All  the  fences  burn. 

Leave  not  a  house  or  stable  unconsumed.' 

My  father's  house  among  the  rest  was — doomed. 

I  read  that  message  and  my  anger  blazed, 

My  home  to  be,  by  my  own  orders,  razed ! 

A  vision  rose  before  my  swimming  brain, 
I  saw  the  old  parental  roof  again, 
I  saw  my  father,  as  in  days  of  yore, 
Smoking  his  pipe  beside  the  open  door; 
I  saw  his  gaze,  with  penetrating  look, 
Fixed  on  the  pages  of  some  wholesome  book; 


88  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

I  saw  my  mother  sit  beside  him,  there, 
Recumbent  in  her  old  reclining  chair. 
The  vision  changed, — I  saw  her  parting  tears, 
My  father's  parting  curse  rang  in  my  ears ; 
'Go !    Go !'    said  he,  'but  nevermore  return, 
Go,  slay  your  neighbors,  pillage,  sack  and  burn, 
But  never  while  the  golden  sun  doth  shine 
Be  welcomed  home  as  son  and  heir  of  mine.' 

I  felt  but  little  longing  to  return, 
And  less  desire  to  pillage,  sack  and  burn. 
And  yet, — those  cruel  orders  I  must  give, 
No  power  had  I  to  voice  the  negative. 
In  commonplace  affairs  of  life,  'tis  true, 
Men  may  elect  to  do,  or  not  to  do. 
In  military  operations,  they 
Have  no  alternative,  but  to  obey. 

Ah !    Fain,  from  that  impending  holocaust 
Would  I  have  snatched  them !    Rather  had  I  lost 
The  tinselled  honors  and  the  epaulettes, 
And  doffed  my  uniform  without  regrets, 
Than  harm  by  word  or  deed  that  aged  sire ; 
Yet  I  must  start,  who  fain  would  quench  the  fire. 
I  read  and  read  that  cipher  message  there, 
How  many  times,  I  have  not  to  declare, 
But  over  and  again  I  scanned  the  lines, 
And  pondered  well  its  symbols  and  its  signs; 
Ironclad  were  they,  from  every  standpoint  viewed, 
Admitting  not  of  choice  or  latitude ; 


The  Blight  of  War  89 

So,  to  the  officers  of  my  command, 
I  gave  their  orders,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
And  swift  as  horseflesh  ever  travelled,  went 
To  seek  the  corps  commander  in  his  tent, 
To  crave  this  boon,  or  favor,  at  his  hand, — 
My  father's  house  be  still  allowed  to  stand. 

'Twas  long  before  I  gained  an  audience; 
I  felt,  but  cannot  picture  the  suspense 
Of  that  long  hour's  involuntary  wait ; 
Too  late,  my  heart  would  beat,  too  late,  too  late ! 
I  took  a  seat  and  pulled  my  watch  out  once; 
'Too  late,  too  late,'  the  timepiece  ticked  response ! 
I  paced  the  ground  with  quick,  impatient  tread ; 
'Too  late,  too  late,  too  late,'  my  footsteps  said ! 
'Too  late,  too  late,  too  late !'    With  fluttering  beat 
My  heart  responded  to  my  echoing  feet. 

The  General,  who  a  kindly  heart  possessed, 

No  sooner  heard,  than  granted  my  request ; 

'Twas  but  a  moment's  work  to  mount  my  steed, 

And  spur  him  to  his  maximum  of  speed ; 

The  faithful  creature  seemed  to  understand 

And  needed  little  urging  from  my  hand, 

As  down  the  turnpike,  toward  my  childhood's  home, 

He  fairly  flew,  his  bridle  white  with  foam ; 

His  hoofbeats,  as  we  clattered  o'er  the  ground, 

Returned  a  dull,  premonitory  sound, 

Which  seemed  to  echo  and  accentuate 

The  burden  of  my  heart/Too  late!    Too  late!' 


90  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

The  fences,  near  the  turnpike,  as  we  passed, 
Were  by  my  orders  disappearing  fast ; 
The  rails  were  piled  in  heaps  and  soon  became 
A  prey  to  war's  red  ally, — vandal  flame. 
Houses,  familiar  to  my  childish  sight, 
Glowed  strangely  with  an  unaccustomed  light, 
While  from  adjacent  barns  and  hay-ricks  broke 
Incipient  tongues  of  flame  and  clouds  of  smoke. 
The  orders,  ruthless  and  inflexible, 
Were  by  the  soldiers  executed  well. 

Still  down  the  turnpike  dashed  my  sweating  horse, 
I  plied  the  cruel  spurs  with  double  force, 
When  in  the  distance  there  appeared  to  view 
The  old  stone  manor-house  my  childhood  knew. 
My  spirit  sank, — though  I  was  not  surprised, 
My  worst  misgivings  had  been  realized, 
For  from  the  roof  and  upper  windows  came 
Dense  clouds  of  smoke  and  lurid  sheets  of  flame. 
It  had  its  portion  in  the  common  fate, 
'Too  late !'  the  mocking  hoof-beats  rang,  'Too  late !' 

We  passed  a  company,  on  their  return 
From  executing  those  instructions  stern; 
It  was  the  company  of  my  brigade 
Wherein  I  first  was  a  lieutenant  made; 
Its  officers  and  men  I  knew  by  name ; 
They  cheered  me  when  their  captain  I  became; 
They  cheered  me  when  I  left  a  major's  tent, 
To  be  the  colonel  of  their  regiment. 


The  Blight  of  War  91 

They  did  my  bidding.    How  could  I  condemn ! 
They  honored  me  and  I  respected  them ; 
And  yet,  these  favorites  of  my  command 
Had  not  one  hour  before  applied  the  brand 
Which  was  transforming  with  its  wand  of  fire 
My  father's  house  into — his  funeral  pyre. 

That  they  had  met  resistance,  I  could  see, 
For  wounded  men,  in  number  two  or  three, 
Were  by  their  comrades  carted  in  advance, 
While  one  more  limped  behind  the  ambulance. 
Upon  a  stretcher  carried  in  their  van, 
The  soldiers  bore  the  body  of  a  man ; 
He  was  their  captain,  and  my  bosom  friend ; 
He  plied  that  torch, — and  met  a  bloody  end. 

I  plunged  the  spurs,  but  not  without  remorse, 

Into  his  steaming  flanks  and  urged  my  horse, 

Which  I  disliked  to  tax  beyond  his  strength; 

Such  speed  had  he  maintained,  that  now,  at  length, 

He  was  compelled  to  pant  and  hesitate; 

With  labored  effort  we  dashed  through  the  gate, 

Or  where  the  gate  had  been  an  hour  before, 

For  gate  and  fence  alike,  were  seen  no  more, 

Save  in  the  scattered  bonfires,  while  at  most 

All  that  remained  was  here  and  there  a  post. 

There  was  a  fascination  in  that  sight 
Which  seemed  to  conquer  and  unnerve  me,  quite; 
A  sense  of  horror,  not  akin  to  fear, 
Possessed  my  being  as  we  galloped  near ; 


92  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

All  sorts  of  evil  pictures  filled  my  mind, 

As  one  who  seeks,  yet  dreads  what  he  may  find ; 

As  we  drew  nearer,  I  remember  well, 

With  hissing  crash  the  roof  collapsed  and  fell; 

Dismounting,  I  the  premises  surveyed, 

And  viewed  the  havoc  and  destruction  made; 

Crushed  by  the  disappointment,  the  suspense, 

And  failure  of  my  planned  deliverance, 

I  moved  about  with  apprehensive  tread, 

To  seek  my  relatives,  alive  or  dead ; 

And,  near  a  haystack's  smouldering  ruins  found 

My  father's  body,  weltering  on  the  ground; 

A  musket  tightly  clenched  within  his  hand, 

Slain  by  the  troopers  of  my  own  command ; 

His   whitened   locks   were   streaked   with    crimson 

stains, 
The  same  red  blood  then  coursing  through  my  veins. 

Close  by  his  side,  a  form  with  silvered  hair, 
Caressed  his  brow,  with  dazed,  abstracted  air; 
'Twas  she  who  nursed  my  being  into  life, 
The  highest  type  of  mother  and  of  wife ; 
Our  glances  met,  yet  e'er  I  framed  to  speak, 
She  started  up,  then  with  a  piercing  shriek 
Fell  back,  expiring  on  the  speechless  clay 
Of  him  whose  life  so  lately  ebbed  away. 

'As  campfires  gleamed,  and  heaven's  orb,  serene 
With  borrowed  radiance,  o'erflowed  the  scene, 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  93 

Within  a  grave,  beneath  the  crimson  sands, 
I  laid  them  both  to  rest  with  my  own  hands. 
In  lieu  of  prayer,  or  solemn  dirge,  was  heard 
The  twittering  cadence  of  the  mockingbird, 
Uniting  with  the  sentry's  muffled  tread, 
Which  seemed  a  measured  requiem  for  the  dead, 
As,  side  by  side,  in  death's  eternal  sleep, 
I  laid  them  tenderly,  nor  paused  to  weep, 
For  feelings  which  in  tears  find  no  relief 
Had  dried  the  very  fountainheads  of  grief. 
I  shaped  a  double  mound  above  their  clay, 
Planted  a  wooden  cross, — and  went  my  way. 

That  night  I  tore  the  medals  from  my  breast, 
Resigned  my  sword  and  started  for  the  West." 


VI II.     THE  STORY  OF  AN  EXILE 

Such  was  the  tragic  story  told, 
And,  tired  from  standing  on  his  feet, 
This  patriarch  so  gray  and  old 
Relit  his  pipe  and  took  a  seat. 
As  one,  inert  and  overtaxed 
From  strenuous  toil,  he  soon  relaxed 
Into  that  dull  composure,  which 
Fatigue  accords  to  poor  and  rich. 

The  observation  could  detect 
No  levity  nor  disrespect, 


94  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Nor  through  his  story  was  there  heard 
Remark  or  interruptive  word, 
His  voice  and  bearing  as  he  spoke, 
Admitting  not  of  jest  or  joke. 
The  common  feeling  seemed  to  be 
Respect  and  deepest  sympathy. 

As  childish  incidents  recurred 

In  memory  to  Dad  McGuire, 

As  one  who  neither  saw  nor  heard 

He  sat,  intent  upon  the  fire; 

Yet  watched  the  ever-changing  blaze 

With  that  intensity  of  gaze 

Which  shows  the  things  the  eyes  have  caught 

Are  not  the  subjects  of  the  thought, 

But  far  beyond  their  metes  and  bounds 

The  vision  rests  on  other  grounds. 

This  story  of  a  life  rehearsed, 
Left  other  eyes  bedimmed  and  blurred; 
Each  with  his  silent  thoughts  conversed 
And  none  presumed  to  speak  a  word, 
Lest  sympathy  the  tears  provoke. 
Old  Uncle  Jim  forgot  to  smoke 
And  though  he  had  replenished  it, 
Still  left  his  meerschaum  pipe  unlit, 
Till  as  the  watchdog  suddenly 
Wakes  up  with  apprehensive  sniff, 
He  started  from  his  reverie 
And  took  an  unsuccessful  whiff; 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  95 

But  embers  which  the  fire  supplied 
Soon  changed  the  fragrant  charge  inside 
With  alternating  draw  and  whiff, 
Into  a  meerschaum  Teneriffe. 

All  smoked,  excepting  Dad  McGuire, 

Who  stirred  the  embers  of  the  fire, 

And  placed  thereon  what  seemed  to  be, 

The  remnants  of  a  hemlock  tree; 

'Twas  one  of  those  ungainly  stumps, 

Composed  of  twisted  knots  and  bumps, 

Which  every  boy  or  even  man, 

In  chopping  wood,  skips  if  he  can; 

'Twas  such  a  chunk  as  may  be  seen 

After  the  woodpile's  chopped  up  clean ; 

The  log  they  split  the  blocks  upon 

And  leave  when  all  the  rest  is  gone. 

This  chunk,  which  none  of  them  could  split, 

Though  many  had  attempted  it, 

By  divers  and  ingenious  ways, 

Was  soon  enveloped  in  a  blaze, 

Which  shed  its  glare  into  the  night, 

As  beacons  radiate  their  light. 

Reclining  by  his  brother's  side, 

Abstracted  and  preoccupied, 

The  Russian,  rubicund  and  hale, 

Was  importuned  to  tell  his  tale, 

And  slightly  coughing  from  the  smoke, 

Forthwith  in  faultless  diction  spoke:    - 


96  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

"My  brother's  story  you  have  heard, 

The  same  should  mine  be,  word  for  word, 

Up  to  that  dismal  dungeon  grate, 

Which  he  presumed  had  sealed  my  fate. 

I  doubt  not  he  related  well 

The  horrors  of  that  loathsome  cell, 

So  that  description,  now  by  me, 

Would  fruitless  repetition  be. 

Sufficient  be  it  to  declare 

That  brief  was  my  detention  there. 


Though  discontent  the  action  was 

Which  constituted  my  offence, 

I  felt  the  weight  of  Russian  laws 

When  chained  to  other  malcontents. 

Before  the  chains  had  time  to  rust 

I  plodded  through  the  mud  and  dust 

As  many  exiles  erst  had  trod, 

Their  footprints  often  stained  with  blood. 

With  clanking  chains  and  painful  stride, 

With  Cossack  guards  on  either  side, 

We  marched  in  silence,  in  the  reach 

Of  sabres  that  discouraged  speech. 

A  sad  procession,  for  full  well 

Our  destinations  could  we  tell. 

Down  country  lane  and  village  street 

We  limped  with  bruised  and  blistered  feet, 

In  single  file,  as  some  infirm 

Though  monstrous  centipede  or  worm, 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  97 

Beset  by  some  tormenting  foe, 
Might  move  with  locomotion  slow, 
And  tortured  by  its  enemy, 
Propel  its  foul  dimensions  by. 

Past  where  the  Urals,  bleak  and  high, 

Invade  the  cerulean  sky 

With  summits  desolate  and  gray, 

With  weary  tread  we  wound  our  way. 

Where  intertwining  branches  made 

A  vernal  canopy  of  shade, 

The  song-birds,  from  their  arches  high 

Mocked  at  our  chains,  as  we  passed  by; 

The  only  forms  of  earth  or  air, 

Deprived  of  rightful  freedom  there. 

At  night  in  forest  depths  profound, 

We  lay  upon  the  cheerless  ground, 

Where  on  our  route  we  chanced  to  be, 

Nor  couch  nor  coverlet  had  we 

Between  us  and  the  turf  or  stones, 

To  soothe  our  tired  and  aching  bones. 

Our  limbs  emaciated  grew, 

Ragged  were  we  and  dirty,  too, 

As  o'er  the  trans-Slavonian  plains, 

We  dragged  our  grievous  weight  of  chains. 

As  passed  the  autumn  months  away 
Six  leagues  we  measured  every  day, 


98  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Six  leagues  our  loads  were  daily  borne, 
On  shoulders  galled  and  callous-worn. 
Each  morning  was  our  march  begun, 
Before  the  advent  of  the  sun, 
While  every  evening  in  the  west 
He  sank,  before  we  paused  for  rest. 
Time  and  again  upon  the  road, 
The  weaker  dropped  beneath  their  load, 
And  fainting  from  fatigue  and  pain, 
They  sank,  but  rose  not  up  again. 

Where  the  Pacific's  broad  expanse 

Of  sleeping  waters,  calm  and  fair, 

Divide  the  mighty  continents 

With  their  pelagic  barrier ; 

Upon  the  Asiatic  shore, 

Some  twelve  leagues  from  the  sea  or  more, 

In  course  of  time,  our  weary  line 

Was  halted  at  a  penal  mine. 

'Twas  there  within  a  log  stockade 

Constructed  in  a  manner  crude, 

That  we  our  habitation  made 

Through  many  months  of  servitude. 

A  mine's  a  mine  the  world  around, 
A  cheerless  place  wherever  found, 
Dismal  and  dark  beyond  compare 
And  charged  with  foul,  unwholesome  air, 
Which  fills  the  lungs  at  every  breath 
With  germs  of  an  untimely  death. 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  99 

In  caverns  subterranean, 

With  limbs  not  bound  by  gyve  or  chain, 

Of  those  who  toil,  few  are  the  men 

Who  reach  the  threescore  years  and  ten. 

Such  was  the  smoke-polluted  mine 

Wherein  we  slaved  from  morn  till  night, 

Or  when  the  sun  had  ceased  to  shine 

We  toiled  till  his  returning  light, 

Then  dragged  each  one  his  ball  and  chain 

Back  to  his  bed  of  straw  again. 

Day  after  day  could  there  be  seen 

The  same  monotonous  routine ; 

Such  was  the  drudging  life  we  led 

Till  hope  from  every  bosom  fled, 

And  each  became  as  time  rolled  on 

A  spiritless  automaton. 

The  details  of  a  captive's  lot 
I  fear  would  interest  you  not, 
So  your  forbearance  I  beseech, 
While,  in  impromptu  forms  of  speech, 
I  strive  in  simple  terms  to  shape 
The  narrative  of  my  escape. 

From  out  the  realms  of  tropic  heat, 
Invading  with  contagious  feet, 
Came  there  a  plague,  one  summer-tide. 
Up  from  the  south  with  fatal  stride 
It  stalked,  and  poured  its  vials  forth 
Upon  the  sparsely  settled  North; 


100  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

A  wave  of  pestilence  and  fear 
Swept  o'er  the  northland  far  and  near ; 
The  frenzied  peasants,  in  their  fright, 
Sought  safety  in  promiscuous  flight; 
In  consternation  and  alarm, 
To  seek  immunity  from  harm, 
They  left  the  sick  in  their  distress, 
And  fled  into  the  wilderness; 
As  if,  within  the  solitude, 
The  Nemesis,  which  had  pursued, 
Might  satiate  its  deadly  wrath, 
And  deviate  or  change  its  path, 
And  its  malignant  steps  retrace 
Back  to  the  southern  starting-place. 

The  able-bodied  left  behind 
The  paralyzed,  the  halt  and  blind; 
The  well  in  abject  terror  fled, 
Forsook  the  dying,  while  the  dead, 
Unburied  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Became  a  nidus  of  disease, 
Wherefrom  fresh  seeds  of  pestilence 
Were  scattered  by  the  elements. 

Of  those  who  felt  its  loathsome  breath, 
But  few  escaped  a  speedy  death; 
So  rapid  were  the  ravages 
Of  that  distemper  or  disease, 
That  many,  stricken  in  the  night, 
Expired  before  the  dawn  of  light; 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  101 

For  some,  who  in  the  morning  time 
Stood  well  and  strong  in  manhood's  prime, 
The  noontide  brought  the  fatal  scourge, 
And  evening  zephyrs  played  the  dirge; 
Those  who  survived  the  plague  direct 
Oft  died  from  hunger  and  neglect; 
The  convalescents  woke  and  found 
No  ministering  forms  around, 
No  watcher  sitting  by  the  bed, 
Alone  were  they,  save  for  the  dead; 
They  called,  but  Echo's  voice  alone 
Answered  the  supplicating  moan; 
They  prayed,  but  no  one  heard  their  prayer, 
Then  perished  from  the  want  of  care. 


The  suffering  of  the  stricken  then, 
Defies  descriptive  word  or  pen; 
I  see  with  memory's  vision  yet 
The  beads  of  suppurating  sweat 
Stand  on  the  burning  brows  of  those 
Smitten  with  agonizing  throes; 
As  racking  tortures  permeate 
Each  swollen  and  distorted  shape, 
With  thirst  which  none  may  mitigate, 
They  call  for  drink  with  mouths  agape; 
Yet  naught  may  succor  such  distress, 
Save  coma  and  unconsciousness; 
When  these  the  intellect  benumb, 
The  sense  and  feeling  overcome, 


102  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Within  its  tuneful  cavern  hung 
No  longer  rests  the  fluent  tongue, 
But  swollen  by  the  pain  and  drouth, 
Protrudes  from  out  the  parching  mouth ; 
The  burning  and  discolored  lip 
Imagined  moisture  tries  to  sip ; 
Again  they  vainly  strive  to  speak 
Their  fevered  incoherencies, 
But  vocal  organs  parched  and  weak 
Respond  but  labored  gasp  and  wheeze. 

I  scent  the  putrefying  air, 
And  see  the  horror  and  despair 
Depicted  on  the  lineaments 
Of  every  stricken  countenance; 
I  see  them  writhe,  then  suddenly, 
With  ghastly  leer  convulse  and  die. 

As  stagnant  waters  generate 

A  fungous  and  unsightly  freight 

Of  morbid  scum  and  slimy  moss, 

Of  origin  spontaneous; 

So  latent  germs,  unnoticed,  lurk 

In  readiness  for  deadly  work; 

When  these  the  right  conditions  find, 

And  spread  infection  to  the  wind, 

Chronologers,  both  far  and  near, 

Record  an  epidemic  year. 

Within  the  bounds  of  our  stockade, 
The  plague  its  foul  appearance  made, 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  103 

And  soon  inoculated  there, 

Its  virus  to  the  very  air, 

Till  e'en  the  genial  summer  breeze 

Seemed  a  dispenser  of  disease ; 

Then,  as  impartial  lightnings  strike 

The  nobleman  and  serf  alike, 

Within  this  filthy  prison  yard, 

It  smote  both  prisoner  and  guard ; 

The  difference  of  race,  of  lot, 

Of  rank  was  speedily  forgot, 

As  discipline  succumbed  to  dread 

And  officers  and  soldiers  fled, 

Save  such  as,  fallen  by  the  way, 

Helpless  and  unattended  lay, 

Till  death  brought  silence  and  relief, 

From  agony  intense,  though  brief. 


Within  the  walls  of  the  stockade 
Not  one  unstricken  person  stayed, 
Except  some  convicts  who  remained 
For  one  good  reason : — we  were  chained. 
Our  dingy  quarters,  floor  and  bed, 
Were  filled  with  dying  and  with  dead ; 
The  only  shelter  we  could  claim, 
A  fetid  lazar-house  became. 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  the  air 
Was  filled  with  accents  of  despair, 
How  clamor  and  entreaty  smote 
The  air,  from  blistered  tongue  and  throat, 


106  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

A  gruesome  and  revolting  sight 

Is  horrifying  in  the  light, 

But  when  dissembling  night  conceals, 

The  breast  a  double  terror  feels. 

That  darkness,  black  beyond  compare, 

Seemed  a  fit  mantle  for  despair. 

Few  are  the  words  when  hope  has  failed ; 

An  awful  quietude  prevailed; 

I  sat,  a  mute  and  helpless  lump, 

And  felt  my  heart's  pulsating  thump, 

With  movement  regular  and  strong, 

Propel  life's  crimson  flood  along, 

But  made  no  sound  until  the  spell 

Of  silence  was  unbearable. 


I  spoke,  but  all  the  ears  in  reach 

Were  deaf  to  every  charm  of  speech ; 

I  shouted  till  the  roof,  the  floor 

And  walls  resounded  with  the  roar; 

I  called  the  dead  men  at  my  side, 

But  Echo's  voice  alone  replied; 

I  was  alone,  nor  man  nor  brute 

Was  there,  save  those  so  stark  and  mute ; 

My  voice  upon  my  listening  ear 

Fell,  most  unnatural  and  queer, 

As  if  with  weird,  uncanny  sound 

The  walls  responsive  voices  found, 

And  echoed  back  the  tones  at  will, 

To  mock  those  tongues  so  cold  and  still ; 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  107 

Though  these  vociferations  made 
My  spirit  none  the  less  afraid, 
The  silence  seemed  more  terrible; 
Words  fail  me  as  I  strive  to  tell 
How  in  my  desperation,  I 
Abandoned  hope,  yet  could  not  die. 

I  never  craved  the  morning  light, 
As  through  that  terrifying  night, 
For  gentle  but  erratic  Sleep 
Withheld  her  respite  soft  and  deep, 
As  in  that  charnel  house  I  lay, 
Till  twilight  ushered  in  the  day. 

When  daylight  had  returned  again 
I  strove  with  the  relentless  chain, 
Twisted  and  tugged  until  at  length 
A  more  than  ordinary  strength 
Possessed  my  arm,  and  at  one  stroke 
The  rivets  weakened,  bent  and  broke; 
One  master  wrench  and  from  the  floor, 
The  ring  which  held  the  chain  I  tore; 
I  dragged  the  dead  men  o'er  the  ground 
Till  forge  and  anvil  I  had  found; 
There  with  the  hammer,  rasp  and  file 
I  wrought  with  diligence  the  while; 
At  some  expense  of  time  and  pains, 
I  disengaged  the  cruel  chains, 
And  stood  once  more  erect  and  free; 
Thus  ended  my  captivity. 


108  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

A  guard  lay  prostrate  on  the  sand, 
His  rifle  in  his  lifeless  hand; 
I  wrenched  it  from  his  rigid  clutch, 
Then  played  the  ghoul  in  self-defence, 
For  clothing  and  accoutrements 
Escaped  not  my  despoiling  touch ; 
I  breathed  the  air  of  liberty, 
Alone  I  stood,  but  armed  and  free. 
To  mislead  any  watchful  eyes, 
I  donned  a  militant  disguise, 
And,  in  the  dead  man's  uniform, 
Was  soon  prepared  for  strife  or  storm. 


Unseen,  unhindered,  unpursued, 
I  soon  was  in  the  solitude, 
Contending  with   impediments, 
Which  every  wilderness  presents. 
Primeval  forests,  through  which  poured 
Eivers  unknown  to  bridge  or  ford ; 
Swamps,  overgrown  with  weeds  and  moss, 
Almost  impossible  to  cross; 
A  waste  of  fallen  trees  and  logs, 
Rank  vegetation,  stagnant  bogs; 
Decaying  leaves,  profusely  spread, 
Which  rustled  at  the  slightest  tread, 
While  underbrush  and  thicket  made 
A  thorny  maze  or  barricade, 
Through  which  'twas  difficult  to  force 
A  passage  or  retain  one's  course. 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  109 

There  my  experience  began, 
Along  the  lines  of  primal  man; 
My  fare,  as  I  remember  well, 
Was  strictly  aboriginal, 
For  stupid  grouse  and  ptarmigan 
Were  easily  approached  and  slain; 
And,  as  a  relish  for  such  food, 
I  had  the  berries  of  the  wood. 

Through  arches  of  umbrageous  shade 
I  journeyed  onward  undismayed, 
And  undisturbed  by  man  or  beast, 
Made  daily  progress  toward  the  east, 
Till  viewing  the  Pacific  shore, 
Northward  along  the  coast  I  bore. 
I  kept  that  course  for  many  days, 
Where  none  but  savage  eyes  might  gaze ; 
Full  many  a  mile  my  footsteps  led 
Through  regions  uninhabited, 
Till  where  Kamschatka's  barren  rocks 
Resist  the  sea's  aggressive  shocks, 
One  gloomy  afternoon,  I  stood 
And  watched  the  wide  and  trackless  flood. 

'Twould  make  a  tedious  tale,  I  fear, 
Not  meet  for  recitation  here, 
Should  I  endeavor  to  relate 
The  details  of  a  hermit's  fate. 
To  all  appearance  I  was  free; 
A  plethora  of  liberty 


110  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Is  little  consolation,  where 

One  lonely  recluse  breathes  the  air; 

For  solitary  mortals  find 

But  little  joy  and  peace  of  mind; 

When  freedom  is  enjoyed  alone, 

Its  fondest  attributes  are  flown; 

Men  of  companions  destitute 

Sink  to  the  level  of  the  brute; 

Their  sacred  essence  seems  to  be 

Dependent  on  community. 

Each  morning,  in  the  reddening  skies, 
Alone,  I  watched  the  sun  god  rise, 
While  every  evening  in  the  west, 
Alone,  I  watched  him  sink  to  rest. 
To  catch  a  passing  ship,  in  vain 
I  hourly  scanned  the  watery  plain, 
Till  one  fair  morn  a  distant  sail 
Brought  the  conclusion  of  my  tale. 

The  whaler,  such  she  proved  to  be, 
Steered  landward  through  a  rippling  sea, 
And  made  directly  for  the  shore; 
She  anchored,  then  I  saw  them  lower 
The  ship's  long-boat ;  at  a  command 
I  saw  them  row,  then  saw  them  land. 
Fearing  occasion  might  require 
The  service  of  a  signal  fire, 
A  mass  of  driftwood  I  had  heaped; 
Behind  that  pile  I  hid  and  peeped. 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  111 

From  that  concealed  position,  I, 
Watching  with  closest  scrutiny, 
Discovered  that  the  squad  of  ten 
Were  not  my  fellow-countrymen. 

Their  purpose  I  could  now  discern; 
One  had  a  spade,  which  turn  by  turn 
Each  wielded  till  their  willing  hands 
Had  delved  a  grave  within  the  sands. 
Six  of  the  party  I  espied 
Returning  to  the  long-boat's  side, 
Where  from  its  bottom  they  began 
To  raise  the  body  of  a  man, 
In  canvas  strips  securely  sewed, 
All  ready  for  its  last  abode; 
From  every  motion  it  would  seem 
The  object  of  sincere  esteem. 
From  my  location  I  could  see 
Them  balance  it  most  tenderly, 
As  on  six  shoulders  broad  and  strong, 
They  bore  it  sorrowfully  along, 
While  wind  and  ever-restless  surge 
Joined  in  a  requiem  or  dirge. 

The  sun  through  hazy  Autumn  skies 

Shone  on  the  simple  obsequies, 

As  round  the  open  grave  they  stood, 

In  reverential  attitude, 

And  shovelled  in  the  brown  sea  sand; 

One,  with  a  prayer-book  in  his  hand, 


112  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Essayed  the  r61e  of  corybant; 

Omitting  the  accustomed  chant, 

He  read  a  burial  service  there, 

Concluding  with  its  words  of  prayer : 

'Ashes  to  ashes !    Dust  to  dust !' 

These  words  of  that  abiding  trust, 

In  life  beyond  the  fleeting  span 

Which  heaven  has  accorded  man; 

Elysian  fields,  where  perfect  peace 

Succeeds  life's  transitory  lease ; 

The  inextinguishable  fire 

Of  faith,  the  daughter  of  desire, 

Glows  brightest,  when  the  faltering  breath 

Is  conscious  of  approaching  death ; 

Bent  'neath  the  weight  of  many  years, 

The  form  of  hoary  age  appears, 

E'en  as  the  failing  hourglass  shows 

That  life  is  drawing  to  its  close, 

And  when  the  final  sands  are  spent, 

The  trembling  limbs  make  their  descent 

Into  the  shadows,  while  the  ray 

Of  faith  illuminates  the  way. 

Vain  introspection,  which  descries 

No  light  behind  the  mysteries 

Of  death,  engenders  in  the  breast 

But  vacant  yearnings  and  unrest; 

Belying  on  the  eye  of  hope, 

We  look  beyond  our  mundane  scope, 

And  with  enraptured  vision  see 

fhe  fore-gleams  of  futurity. 


The  Story  of  an  Exile  113 

With  eager  eyes  I  watched  them  stand, 
Upon  that  barren  waste  of  sand, 
Until  the  final  words  of  prayer 
Had  died  away  upon  the  air. 
Their  words,  euphonious  and  clear, 
Were  wafted  to  my  listening  ear, 
Borne  on  a  favorable  breeze 
Which  blew  directly  from  the  seas ; 
My  breast,  with  deep  emotion  stirred, 
I  recognized  their  every  word, 
An  English  burial  ritual  read, 
On  this  wild  shore,  above  the  dead. 
This  dissipated  every  fear, 
I  knew  deliverance  was  near; 
My  secret  would  be  safe  among 
The  scions  of  the  English  tongue. 

Forever  from  the  light  of  day 
They  laid  his  pallid  form  away, 
While  every  word  and  action  proved 
Their  rites  were  over  one  they  loved. 
Soon  from  the  level  of  the  ground, 
There  rose  another  silent  mound, 
To  teach,  beside  that  northern  sea, 
Its  lesson  of  mortality. 

Death  on  that  dismal  northern  main, 
In  binding  with  its  silent  chain 
Forever  their  lamented  mate, 
Had  freed  me  from  a  sterner  fate. 


114  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Leaving  my  earstwhile  hiding  place, 
I  stood  before  them  face  to  face; 
Then  in  their  own  vernacular, 
Gave  proper  salutation  there. 
'Twas  plain  that  they  regarded  me 
As  human  salvage,  which  the  sea 
Had,  in  some  evil  moment,  tossed 
Upon  that  bleak  and  barren  coast, 
Like  broken  wreckage  or  debris, 
Cast  up  by  the  capricious  sea. 
With  frank  but  sympathetic  eyes, 
They  watched  me  with  no  small  surprise, 
While  I  rehearsed  without  delay, 
My  story  as  a  castaway. 

Repairing  to  the  ship's  long-boat, 
Which  soon  was  in  the  surf  afloat, 
I  bade  farewell  to  Russian  soil 
In  language  not  intensely  loyal. 
They  ministered  to  my  distress, 
From  ample  stores  of  food  and  dress, 
Performed  such  acts  of  kindness  then 
As  might  beseem  large-hearted  men ; 
Nor  was  there  aught  perfunctory 
In  their  solicitude  for  me; 
Their  acts  were  of  their  own  accord, 
Without  suspicion  of  reward. 

Although  possessed  of  little  skill 
In  nautical  affairs,  to  fill 


"The  noble  spruce  and  stately  fir 

Stood  draped  in  feathery  garniture." 


See  page  119. 


Conclusion  115 

A  seaman's  watch  I  volunteered, 
As  we  toward  Arctic  waters  steered, 
Pursuant  of  the  spouting  whale; 
I  plied  each  task  with  rope  and  sail, 
And  ere  we  reached  a  harbor  bar, 
Was  rated  as  a  first-class  tar; 
By  sufferance  of  as  brave  a  crew 
As  ever  sailed  a  voyage  through, 
The  two  succeeding  years  I  passed 
In  northern  seas  before  the  mast ; 
Two  years  from  that  eventful  day 
We  moored  in  San  Francisco  Bay. 
I  bade  the  sea  farewell  for  aye, 
Bade  my  deliverers  good-bye, 
With  fervent  pressure  of  the  hand, 
Then  straight  betook  myself  to  land. 

Seeking  a  home  with  freedom  blest, 
I've  cast  my  fortunes  with  the  West." 


IX.    CONCLUSION 

Concluding,  he  resumed  his  seat 
Beside  his  brother,  Russian  Pete; 
Yet  ever  and  anon  expressed 
His  views  on  points  of  interest, 
And  details,  which  this  narrative 
In  its  abridgment  may  not  give, 
As  Dad  McGuire  and  Uncle  Jim 
By  turns  interrogated  him. 


116  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

To  say  his  hearers  listened  well, 
Were  too  self-evident  to  tell, 
For  some  who  dozed  before  he  spake, 
Woke  up  and  then  remained  awake. 

As  all  the  inclination  felt, 

To  play  a  game,  the  cards  were  dealt; 

The  winners,  it  was  understood, 

To  be  exempt  from  chopping  wood ; 

While  he  who  made  the  lowest  score 

Must  build  the  fire  and  sweep  the  floor. 

Time  spread  his  wings,  the  moments  flew 

Unheeded  for  an  hour  or  two. 

Until  at  length  the  measured  stroke 

Of  twelve,  in  timely  accents  broke 

From  an  old  clock  upon  the  shelf, 

As  old  as  Uncle  Jim  himself; 

A  good  old  clock,  as  old  clocks  go, 

But  usually  too  fast  or  slow, 

But  near  enough  the  proper  time 

To  serve  the  purpose  of  this  rhyme. 

The  honors  passed  to  Russian  Pete, 
When  Dad  McGuire  sustained   defeat, 
As  mighty  warriors  often  do, 
In  some  Chalons,  or  Waterloo ; 
The  fortunes  of  the  final  game, 
Adding  fresh  laurels  to  his  fame; 
Then  all  abstained  from  further  play, 
And  forthwith  put  the  cards  away. 


Conclusion 

'Twas  passing  late,  the  dying  fire 
Served  as  the  summons  to  retire, 
And  soon  the  gentle  wand  of  sleep, 
Which  works  the  dream  god's  drowsy  will, 
Laden  with  slumbers  soft  and  deep, 
Passed  over  them  and  all  was  still. 


The  storm  was  over,  far  and  near, 

The  heavens  shone,  so  cold  and  clear 

That  nebulae  and  satellites, 

Unseen  on  ordinary  nights, 

Now  filled  the  broad  expanse  of  sky 

With  unaccustomed  brilliancy ; 

The  astral  vacuums  and  voids, 

W^re  filled  with  discs  and  asteroids; 

Dissevering  the  firmament, 

The  Milky  Way  disclosed  to  sight 

Its  pearly  avenue  of  white 

With  planetary  crystals  blent ; 

Transparently  it  shone,  and  pale, 

As  some  celestial  gauze  or  veil; 

A  silvery  baldric  o'er  the  gold 

Of  constellations  manifold. 

A  silence,  undisturbed,  prevailed, 
The  wind  no  longer  moaned  and  wailed, 
The  elements  had  worked  their  will 
And  now  were  motionless  and  still; 


118  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

From  forest  growth  or  underbrush 
No  whisper  broke  the  solemn  hush; 
The  tempest  king  on  airy  waves, 
Retreated  to  his  secret  caves, 
And  chained  the  winds,  which  his  behest 
Had  lately  stirred  to  wild  unrest. 

The  clouds  had  vanished,  not  a  trace 
Remained  upon  the  arch  of  space, 
To  interpose  a  curtain  rude 
Between  earth  and  infinitude; 
Pellucid  as  the  vault  overhead, 
The  snows  a  layer  of  beauty  spread, 
Save  where  the  genii  of  the  storm 
Had  fashioned  in  fantastic  form, 
With  alternating  whirl  and  sift, 
The  pendent  comb  and  massive  drift. 

The  wilderness  of  ice  and  snow, 

Transfigured  with  a  mellow  glow, 

Received  from  the  translucent  skies 

The  stellar  groups  and  galaxies; 

A  record  of  the  starry  waste, 

By  Nature's  faultless  pencil  traced; 

The  vernal  phalanxes  of  pine, 

In  cassocks  clear  and  crystalline, 

Seemed  as  a  mirror,  in  whose  sheen 

The  glimmering  lamps  of  night  were  seen. 

The  replica  of  pearl  and  gem, 

In  heaven's  twinkling  diadem; 


Conclusion  119 

Golconda's  treasury  displayed, 
On  background  of  the  forest  shade. 

Divested  of  their  transient  green, 
By  Autumn  winds  in  wanton  rage, 
The  aspen's  leafless  limbs  were  seen 
Festooned  with  frosty  foliage; 
As  fell  upon  their  vestal  white, 
The  placid  moon's  aspiring  light, 
The  noble  spruce  and  stately  fir, 
Stood  draped  with  feathery  garniture; 
Configurated  and  embossed, 
With  lace  and  tapestry  of  frost, 
In  quaint  and  curious  design, 
The  willows  and  the  underbrush, 
Were  crystallized  in  silvery  plush, 
And  shimmered  in  the  cold  moonshine. 

The  azure  dome  of  space  o'erhead, 
With  scintillating  grandeur  spread, 
Looked  down  with  cold  inquiring  eyes, 
On  earth  with  all  her  mysteries; 
The  while  reflecting  in  their  snows, 
These  glittering  jewels  of  the  night, 
The  mountains  lay  in  calm  repose, 
Slumbering  'neath  their  robes  of  white. 

[THE  END] 


120  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 


DOLORES 

I  will  sing  of  a  quaint  old  tradition, 

A  legend  romantic  and  strange, 
Which  was  whispered  to  me  by  the  pine  trees 

High  up  on  the  wild  mountain  range. 
Far  away  in  the  mystical  Westland, 

From  the  mountain  peaks  crested  with  snow, 
Glides  Dolores,  the  river  of  sorrow, 

Dolores,  the  river  of  woe. 


Time  was  when  this  river  of  sorrow 

Had  never  a  thought  to  be  sad, 
But  meandered  in  joy  through  the  meadows, 

With  bluebell  and  columbine  clad. 
Her  ripples  were  ripples  of  laughter, 

And  the  soft,  dulcet  voice  of  her  flow 
Was  suggestive  of  peace  and  affection, 

Not  accents  of  anguish  and  woe. 

Long  ago,  ere  the  foot  of  the  white  man 

Had  left  its  first  print  on  the  sod, 
A  people,  both  free  and  contented, 

Her  mesas  and  canon-ways  trod. 
Then  Dolores,  the  river  of  sorrow, 

Was  a  river  of  laughter  and  glee, 
As  she  playfully  dashed  through  the  canons 

In  her  turbulent  rush  to  the  sea. 


Dolores  121 

High  up  on  the  cliffs  in  their  dwellings, 

Which  were  apertures  walled  up  with  rocks, 
Lived  this  people,  sequestered  and  happy; 

Their  dwellings  now  serve  the  wild  fox. 
They  planted  the  maize  and  potato, 

The  kind  river  caused  them  to  grow, 
So  they  worshipped  the  river  with  singing 

Which  blent  with  its  musical  flow. 

This  people,  so  artless  and  peaceful, 

Knew  nothing  of  carnage  and  war, 
But  dwelt  in  such  quiet  and  plenty 

They  knew  not  what  weapons  were  for. 
They  gathered  the  maize  in  its  season, 

Unmindful  of  famine  or  foe 
And  chanted  their  thanks  to  the  spirits 

That  dwelt  in  the  canons  below. 

But  one  evil  day  from  the  Northland 

Swept  an  army  in  battle  array, 
Which  fell  on  this  innocent  people 

And  massacred  all  in  a  day. 
Their  bodies  were  cast  in  the  river, 

A  feast  for  the  vultures,  when  lo! 
The  laughter  and  song  of  the  river 

Were  changed  to  the  wailing  of  woe. 

Gone,  gone  are  this  people  forever, 
Not  a  vestige  nor  remnant  remains 


122  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

To  gather  the  maize  in  its  season 
And  join  in  the  harvest  refrains; 

But  the  river  still  mourns  for  her  people 
With  weird  and  disconsolate  flow, 

Dolores,  the  river  of  sorrow, 
Dolores — the  river  of  woe. 


GREAT  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  COUNTLESS 
FLOCKS  OF  STARS 

Great  Shepherd  of  the  countless  flocks  of  stars, 

Which  range  the  azure  province  of  the  sky, 
Who  marked  the  course  for  Jupiter  and  Mars, 
Nor  leads  the  comet  from  its  path  awry ; 
Though  flaming  constellations  at  Thy  call 
Pass  into  being,  or  created,  fall; 
Thou,  who  hast  caused  the  firmament  to  be, 
In  humbler  pathways,  Father,  lead  Thou  me. 

Thou,  who  hast  framed  the  eagle's  wing  to  soar 

Above  the  verdant  prospects  of  the  plain ; 
Whose  law  hath  shaped  the  pebbles  on  the  shore, 
The  stately  forests  and  the  bearded  grain; 
Whose  hand  hath  formed  the  silvery  satellite 
To  shed  her  tender  moonbeams  o'er  the  night ; 
Thou  who  hast  placed  the  islands  in  the  sea, 
With  that  same  Wisdom,  Father,  lead  Thou  me. 


The  Ruined  Cabin  123 


THE  KUINED  CABIN 

There's  a  pathos  in  the  solemn  desolation 

Of  the  mountain  cabin  sinking  in  decay, 
With  its  threshold  overgrown  with  vegetation, 

With  its  door  unhinged  and  mouldering  away. 
There's  a  weird  and  most  disconsolate  expression 

In  the  sashless  windows  with  their  vacant  stare, 
As  in  mute  appeal,  or  taciturn  confession 

Of  a  wild  and  inconsolable  despair. 


With  its  ridgepole  bent  and  broken  in  the  centre, 

From  its  roof  of  dirt  and  weight  of  winter  snows ; 
Where  the  only  voice  to  greet  you  as  you  enter 

Is  the  wind  which  down  the  crumbling  fireplace 

blows; 
Where  the  chipmunk  chatters  in  loquacious  wonder, 

As  unwonted  steps  invade  his  solitude; 
Where  the  mountain  rat  secretes  his  varied  plunder 

In  the  chimney  corners,  primitive  and  rude. 


Where  the  spider  spins  his  web  in  grim  seclusion, 
To  entrap  the  fly  and  vacillating  moth ; 

From  the  rotten  floor,  in  poisonous  profusion 
Spring  the  toadstools,  with  their  foul  and  fungous 
growth. 

Void  of  symmetry  and  semblance  of  equation, 


124  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Through  the  chinkless  cracks,  the  silvery  moon 

and  stars 
And  the  sun,  at  each  matutinal  invasion, 

Shine  as  through  a  dismal  dungeon's  grated  bars. 

But  no  predatory  hand  in  wanton  malice 

Hath  in  vandal  hour  this  dereliction  wrought, 
But  the  hand  which  crumbles  pyramid  and  palace, 

The  hand  of  Time  with  rust  and  ruin  fraught ; 
Thus  the  proud  or  unpretentious  habitation 

Shall  succumb  to  age  and  melancholy  mould; 
All  are  subject  to  the  same  disintegration, 

For  the  occupant  and  house  alike  grow  old. 


AN  IDYLL 

I  love  to  sit  by  the  waterfall, 

And  list  to  its  laughing  story, 
As  it  fearlessly  leaps  o'er  the  rocky  wall, 

From  the  mountain  peaks  stern  and  hoary; 
Or  watch  the  spray  as  the  colors  play, 

When  the  glorious  sunlight  kisses, 
And  tints  confuse  into  rainbow  hues 

To  embellish  the  wild  abysses. 

I  love  the  rose  and  the  columbine, 

Whose  delicate  beauty  pleases; 
I  love  the  breath  of  the  fragrant  pine, 

As  it  floats  on  the  morning  breezes; 


The  Borderland  of  Sleep  125 

I  love  the  sound  from  the  depths  profound, 
When  the  Thunder-God  is  bringing 

His  crystal  showers,  to  the  tinted  flowers, 
In  their  sweet  profusion  springing. 

I  love  the  lake  in  the  mountain's  lap ; 

Without  a  flaw  or  error 
Recording  the  clouds,  which  the  peaks  enwrap, 

And  the  trees,  as  a  crystal  mirror; 
The  wild  delights  of  the  mountain  heights 

Thrill  my  breast  with  a  keen  devotion, 
As  songbirds  love  the  blue  arch  above, 

Or  the  mariner  loves  the  ocean. 


THE  BORDERLAND  OF  SLEEP 

On  the  margin  of  the  mystic  shores  of  rest, 
Where  imagination  mollifies  the  breast, 
Where  the  fondest  dreams  their  pleasant  vigil's  keep, 
In  the  vestibule  of  slumber,  soft  and  deep, 
Lies  a  neutral  zone,  salubrious  and  sweet, — 
Where  the  realms  of  lethargy  and  action  meet, — 
'Tis  the  borderland  of  sleep. 

Here  the  halcyon  delights  float  by  and  fade, 
Or  the  evil  visions  hover  and  invade; 
Here  the  bosom  entertains  its  secret  guest, 
With  the  silent  plaint  of  agony  suppressed, 


126  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

As  unwelcome  thoughts  rise  from  the  dust   and 

mould, 

Of  the  vanished  years  in  pantomime  unrolled, 
In  this  borderland  of  rest. 


Neither  wakeful,  nor  in  sentient  repose, 

Nor  in  apathy,  complete  and  comatose; 

As  when  Lethe  with  her  mild  nepenthic  surge, 

Doth  in  chaos  of  forgetfulness  submerge, 

But  a  drowsy  consciousness,  a  blend  of  dreams, 

With  reality's  extravagant  extremes; 

Such  the  zone  on  slumber's  verge. 


STELLAR  NOCTURNE 

Speeds  the  day  in  silent  flight,  on  the  sombre  wings 

of  night, 

As  the  dying  sunlight  glimmers  in  the  west ; 
Soon  the  shadows  cease  to  creep,  for  the  sun  has 

gone  to  sleep, 
And  the  scene  is  wrapped  in  somnolence  and  rest. 

From  a  solitary  star,  in  the  realms  of  space  afar, 
Faintly  twinkling  through  the  shadows   of  the 

night, 
See  the  stellar  force  increased,  till  the  scintillating 

east 
Seems  a  galaxy  of  constellations  bright. 


•r^  S  p 


Father,  at  Thy  Altar  Kneeling       127 

With  its  glittering  display,  see  the  gorgeous  Milky 
Way, 

Which  in  twain  the  vaulted  universe  divides, 
As  the  bridal  veil  serene  of  some  fair  celestial  queen, 

Who,  in  jewelled  state,  o'er  astral  space  presides. 


All  the  heavens  seem  in  tune,  and  the  vacillating 

moon 
Bathes  the  landscape  with  her  floods  of  silvery 

light; 

Though  the  scenes  of  day  are  fair,  naught  in  splen 
dor  can  compare 
With  the  grandeur  of  the  firmament  at  night. 


FATHER,  AT  THY  ALTAR  KNEELING 

Father,  at  Tby  altar  kneeling, 

Sin-defiled ; 

Seeking  there  the  balm  of  healing, 
To  Thy  Fatherhood  appealing, 

See  Thy  child. 


I  am  weary  of  transgressions; 

I  have  sinned; 

Prone  to  vice  and  indiscretion, 
Yacillation,  misimpression, 

As  the  wind. 


128  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Neither  sins  nor  imperfections 

I  conceal; 

Evil  thoughts,   impure  reflections, 
Faults  in  manifold  directions, 

Can  I  feel. 

I  am  tired  of  life's  illusion, 

I  would  rest; 

Leave  its  turmoil  and  confusion, 
Fain  would  know  the  blest  seclusion 

Of  Thy  breast. 

Through  the  shadows  of  the  valley 

As  I  speed, 

Bid  my  faltering  courage  rally, 
To  resist  each  adverse  sally; 

Wilt  Thou  lead? 

For  I  know  that  Thou  art  reigning 

Over  all; 

With  this  confidence  remaining, 
Let  me  feel  Thy  Hand  sustaining 

Lest  I  fall. 

DREAMS 

A  dream  is  the  ghost  of  a  fond  delight, 

An  echo  of  former  smiles  or  tears, 
Wafted  to  us  on  the  wings  of  night 

From  the  silent  bourne  of  the  vanished  years. 


Nocturne  129 

A  dream  is  a  perished  joy,  restored 

From  the  mystical  regions  beyond  our  ken, 

Which  we  fain  would  press  as  a  thing  adored, 
To  our  breasts,  ere  it  fades  and  is  lost  again. 

A  dream  is  a  buried  hope  exhumed, 

'Tis  an  iridescent  thing  of  air, 
Which  mocks  at  the  spirit,  by  fate  entombed 

In  the  catacombs  of  a  mute  despair. 

A  dream  is  a  reflex  view  of  life, 

A  blending  of  fancy  with  solemn  truth, 

A  retrospection  of  mundane  strife, 
Old  age  re-living  the  scenes  of  youth. 

Our  dreams  are  but  mirrors  for  our  desires ; 

The  proud  ambition,  the  lofty  aim 
Achieved  in  our  sleep,  but  the  night  expires 

And  the  dull  existence  plods  on  the  same. 

A  dream  is  a  feeble  ray  of  light, 

A  rift  in  the  shadows  through  which  we  grope, 
An  evidence  that  eternal  night 

Can  never  extinguish  the  star  of  hope. 

NOCTURNE 

As  fall  the  dews  of  slumber  soft  and  deep, 

On  wilderness  and  populated  town, 
Bound  by  the  sweet  influences  of  sleep, 

Proud  reason  abdicates  her  golden  crown; 


130  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Dark  Lethe,  of  oblivious  renown, 
Fain  would  I  quaff  from  thy  forgetful  streams, 

In  willing  thralldom  would  I  lay  me  down, 
To  court  the  fair  companionship  of  dreams, 
And  bask  within  their  iridescent  beams. 


Or  linger  in  the  vestibule  of  sleep, 

Where  blow  the  winds  of  memory  from  the  past, 
Ere  yet  the  languid  shades  of  slumber  deep 

Have  o'er  the  sense  their  dormant  shadows  cast; 

Or  muse  upon  the  infinite  and  vast, 
Till  speculations  various  confuse, 

And  thought,  unmerciful  iconoclast, 
With  shattered  images  the  path  bestrews, 
Yet  leads  to  chaos  of  conflicting  views. 


Now  vanish  all  remembrance  of  the  day, 

Complete  immunity  pervade  the  mind, 
Let  fond  imagination  hold  her  sway, 

With  rule  uncircumscribed  and  unconfined; 

Or  soaring  on  the  wings  of  fancy,  wind 
Through  mystic  realms  of  interstellar  space, 

Where  visions  of  supernal  beauty  bind 
The  drowsy  consciousness  in  sweet  embrace; 
But  dreamland  fades,  and  morning  comes  apace. 


"As  it  fearlessly  leaps  o'er  the  rocky  wall 

From  the  mountain  peaks  stern  and  hoary." 

See  page  124. 


A  Fragment  131 


THE  TRUE  FAITH 

That  faith  is  true  whatever  it  may  be, 
What  ethics  or  traditions  it  may  teach, 

Whose  whispers  soothe  the  secret  misery 
And  mollify  with  soft,  persuasive  speech. 

That  faith  is  true  that  lightens  pain  and  care, 
That  false,  which  adds  one  burden  to  the  load, 

Whate'er  its  ornaments  of  psalm  and  prayer, 
A  travesty  on  reason  and  on  God. 

That  faith  is  true  that  buoys  the  sinking  breast, 
When  in  the  throes  of  some  great  agony, 

That  comforts  the  afflicted  and  distressed, 
And  reconciles  the  trembling  soul  to  die. 

That  faith  is  true  that  when  the  chilling  blasts 

Of  final  dissolution  overwhelm 
Life's  fragile  bark,  and  shiver  hull  and  masts, 

Sees  but  the  hand  of  Love  upon  the  helm. 


A  FRAGMENT 

The  bard  who  versifies  for  hire, 
When  no  exalted  thoughts  inspire, 
Tho'  rhyme  and  metre  be  exact, 
Conveys  a  sense  of  something  lacked; 
When  moved  by  no  poetic  fire, 
He  twangs  a  dull  and  tuneless  lyre. 


132  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

MORTALITY 

A  Dissertation 
"If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again?" — Job  xiv.  14. 

Thou  man  of  Uz, — 

The  query  which  thy  fevered  organs  framed, 
Unanswered  still  re-echoes  in  our  ears. 
Thy  desolate  interrogating  cry, 
Born  of  affliction,  grievous  and  extreme, 
Bridging  the  gulf  of  fleeting  centuries, 
Finds  our  weak  tongues  as  impotent  as  thine, 
To  voice  reply  in  accents  void  of  doubt. 
Though  in  our  breasts  awakening  response, 
'Tis  but  a  repetition  of  thy  plaint, 
A  faint  reverberation  of  thy  cry. 
We  peer  into  the  darkness,  but  descry 
Nor  form,  nor  semblance,  with  our  bootless  gaze ; 
We  call  and  list  with  ears  attuned  to  hear; 
No  sound  is  wafted,  and  no  glimmering  ray 
Breaks  from  that  night,  unlit  by  moon  or  star; 
Nor  gleam,  nor  spark,  nor  modicum  of  light 
Is  flashed  from  out  the  precincts  of  the  tomb. 

Death  is  the  final  principle  of  life, 

The  culmination  of  vicissitude, 

The  silent  archer,  whose  unerring  shaft 

Doth  pierce  at  last  the  most  unyielding  breast; 

The  reaper  after  whose  fell  harvesting, 

No  gleaner  bends  nor  follows  in  his  wake. 


Mortality  133 

The  gold  of  Ophir,  and  the  pearls  of  Ind, 

The  sapphires  and  the  rubies  of  the  East, 

Or  all  the  treasures,  which  the  fabled  Gnomes, 

In  subterranean  vaults  and  passages 

Have  guarded,  multiplied  by  countless  sums, 

With  Euclid's  most  exalted  numeral 

In  computation,  as  the  multiple 

Of  least  proportion,  for  the  passing  breath 

Can  purchase  neither  respite  nor  reprieve, 

Nor  can  prolong  it,  by  one  feeble  gasp. 


Nor  fragrant  balm,  nor  sweet  preservative, 

Nor  caustic  alkaloid,  nor  bitter  herb 

From  Nature's  various  dispensary, 

Elixir,  lotion,  nor  restorative, 

Nor  prophylactic  nor  catholicon 

Nor  pharmacy's  most  potent  stimulant 

Can  long  retard  the  swift  but  viewless  flight, 

Of  that  mysterious  thing  we  call  the  Soul. 

Nor  exorcism,  nor  the  mystic  power 

Of  incantation,  nor  of  talisman, 

Nor  words  of  solemn  theurgy  pronounced, 

Can  break  or  dissipate  that  pallid  spell; 

Nor  necromancy,  nor  phylactery, 

Nor  touch  of  magic  wand,  nor  subtle  force 

Of  conjuration,  nor  of  sorcery,  prevails 

Against  the  shadows  of  the  tomb ; 

Nor  all  the  baleful  arts  of  witchery, 

Nor  amulet  withstand  the  charm  of  death. 


134  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

Yea,  man  who  rules  the  passive  elements, 
Enchaining  them  to  service  at  his  will, 
Himself  to  death  must  yield  obedience. 
Yea,  man  who,  through  all  disadvantages 
And  obstacles,  has  hewed  his  way  aloft, 
From  out  the  labyrinth  of  ignorance, 
Who  sways  the  sceptre  over  conquered  realms, 
Of  latent  energy  and  unseen  force, 
Without  condition  or  conceding  term, 
Surrenders  to  that  sombre  potentate. 

Nor  can  in  earth's  remotest  solitude, 

In  forest  depths  or  undiscovered  isle, 

In  dismal  cavern  or  secretive  cave 

Escape  the  mandate  of  that  grizzly  King. 

Nor  wing  of  eagle,  nor  the  fabled  wings 

Of  hippogrif,  of  such  velocity 

As  clothes  the  lightning  and  the  thunderbolt, 

Outstrip  in  speed  the  shadowy  wings  of  death. 

We  pass  along  an  ever-travelled  road, 
Worn  by  the  silent  and  continuous  tread 
Of  throngs  innumerable,  of  every  clime; 
The  countless  generations  of  the  past, 
The  uncomputed  hosts  and  multitudes 
Who  trod  the  earth  in  ages  most  remote, 
And  those  whose  pale  emaciated  forms 
The  generous  earth  hath  recently  received, 
The  myriads  of  every  race  and  tongue 
Who  have  preceded  us,  have  sent  no  word 


Mortality  135 

Of  cheer  or  comfort  from  that  silent  strand, 
And  no  directions  for  our  timorous  steps. 

Grim  Dissolution  knows  no  favorites, 

But  in  his  multiplicity  of  shapes 

Invades  alike,  with  stern  resistless  step, 

The  squalid  hovel  with  its  noisome  air, 

And  palace  most  replete  with  opulence; 

Those  of  exalted  station,  and  the  hordes 

To  whom  existence  means  but  servitude, 

Who  see  the  golden  sun  arise  and  bring 

No  intermission  from  their  ceaseless  toil, 

Who  hope  for  respite  only  with  the  night; 

Those  who  in  dread  reluctance  shrank  from  death, 

And  those  who  neither  knew  nor  cared  the  hour, 

To  life  and  death  alike  indifferent, 

Or  fain  themselves  would  snap  the  fragile  thread; 

Mankind  in  all  conditions  and  degrees 

Of  culture,  affluence  and  penury, 

Of  multiform  endowments  and  desires, 

With  differing  talents  and  proclivities, 

Yea,  all  varieties  and  types  of  men, 

With  pathways  various  and  diversified, 

Have  found  their  paths  converging  at  the  grave. 

Each,  as  the  gathering  shadows  of  the  night, 

In  solemn  chaos  of  unfathomed  gloom, 

Descend  in  sombre,  melancholy  pall, 

And  mark  apace  life's  transitory  eve, 

Must  quaff,  alike,  the  bitter  draught  of  death, 


136  The  Passing  of  the  Storm 

The  one  libation  in  which  all  who  breathe 
May  in  all  equity  participate. 
Each,  at  the  expiration  of  his  span, 
Has  found  the  same  relentless  terminal, 
And  faltering  on  dissolution's  brink, 
With  what  of  strength,  or  guilt  or  innocence 
Did  mark  the  tenor  of  his  brief  career, 
Has  passed  up  to  the  margin  of  the  grave, 
Then  disappeared  forever. 

What  is  Death? 

We  know  not,  yet  in  verity  we  feel 
That,  though  of  most  immediate  concern, 
And  shrouded  deep  in  sable  mystery, 
Though  most  abstruse,  intangible  and  strange, 
'Tis  not  of  our  volition  and  control ! 
It  therefore  proves,  as  life  doth  ever  prove, 
With  all  abundant  plenitude  of  proof, 
A  Force  superior  to  human  strength, 
And  should  afford  no  premises  for  fear. 


[FINIS] 


A          r\r{f( """""'illlllmillllll 


